When you have eliminated the impossible
by Silfrvarg
Summary: When Sherlock is called out to investigate a strange murder, the suspect is nothing like what he expected. Who is this strange man with no name, why would he kill an innocent young woman, and just who is he hiding from? 10th doctor whump.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **When you have eliminated the impossible?

**Fandom:** Doctor Who/Sherlock Holmes crossover

**Summary:** When Sherlock is called out to investigate a strange murder, the suspect is nothing like what he expected. Who is this strange man with no name, why would he kill an innocent young woman, and just who is he hiding from. And how did the end up sharing a cell?

**Rating:** T for violence.

**Characters:** 10th Doctor, Sherlock Holmes, Captain Jack Harkness, John Watson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, Martha Jones, Wilfred Noble, Sergeant Sally Donnovan, Anderson.

**Setting:** a little after _Waters of Mars_ for Doctor Who, after _The Hounds of Baskerville_ for Sherlock.

**Spoilers:** Spoilers for _The End Of Time (Part 2)_ and _The Reichenbach Fall_ in the Epilogue.

**Disclaimer:** I own the laptop I write on, the couch I sit on and this bag of mini m&ms. Anything you recognise belongs to somebody else.

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**A/N:** I'm not to sure about this story, having never written for either of these fandoms, but I've written seven chapters already and I wanted to see if anyone thinks it's worth continuing. So please let me know if you want to see more chapters and I'll keep writing :)

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**Chapter 1**

It was a typical London night, dark and miserable, with rain lashing against the windows. It had been raining an awful lot recently, almost non stop in fact, ever since that truly unexplained incident where planets seemed to appear in the sky. Thirteen days ago to be precise.

Of course, the media's explanation had been unsatisfactory to say the least, _mass hallucinations_? As if everyone, everywhere in the world could be drugged and see the _exact_ same thing. Still, Sherlock supposed, it wasn't like the government was going to start telling the truth about the incident anytime soon. A few short years ago he would have been the first to refute any claims of extraterrestrial visitors to earth, but now, the evidence was overwhelming. It seemed not a year went by without something odd happening in London, usually something disastrous. Every time the city seemed to survive the disaster by the seat of it's pants. At those times, he would lock himself inside the apartment at Baker street and refuse to come out until things had returned to normal, well, normal for _him_ at any rate.

He may be a genius, he may be a brilliant detective, but he was no more qualified to deal with aliens and _spaceships_ than Mrs. Hudson was, which was a truly depressing thought. Still, he tried his best to put those thoughts out of his mind, there was no sense in worrying about something he could not control. Instead, he did what he did best, went from case to case, deducing, thinking, solving, doing what only he could do.

Except for now, that is. Right now he was just bored. There had been no cases worth his time for four days. Four, long, boring, torturous days where his mind had nothing of note to occupy it. At first he had played his violin at all hours of the night, which had truly annoyed John. When he had grown bored of that, he had moved on the experiments in the kitchen, at least until John had thrown out all his samples, complaining about how it was unsanitary to keep jars of blood in the fridge.

So now he was lying back on the couch, three patches on his arm, desperate to find something, _anything_ to ease the boredom. John had gone down to the shops, needing a break from the irritable Sherlock.

When he thought he could stand it no longer, a car pulled up on the street, and he gave a small, satisfied smirk just before the doorbell rang. Salvation, if only temporary.

"Ah, Lestrade. I can actually say I am glad to see you for a change. Tell me, where is it, who's been killed, and why do you need me, because obviously you wouldn't be here if you didn't need me."

As he spoke, he eyed Lestrade, taking in the fresh shirt, which contrasted with the stubble just appearing on his jaw line. Ah, he had been at home then. Whatever it was, it had been serious, and recent.

"A young woman's been murdered. It seemed like a pretty cut and dry case, there were witnesses, we even have a suspect..."

"Then why are you wasting my time if you know who did it?" Sherlock snapped, frustrated and disappointed.

"This case is a little... strange. No obvious injuries, no cause of death, for all intents and purposes she looks like she just dropped over dead. The witness reports say she was screaming and struggling against the suspected attacker, before she simply fell to the ground and died."

"What about the suspect?" Sherlock asked, suddenly serious, his mind going over possible scenarios.

"He's a strange one. No ID, won't give us a name, keeps protesting that he didn't kill anyone when we have three witnesses that all say they saw him kneeling over the victim holding something to her head just before she died."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed, he took a pen and paper and scrawled a quick note to John. "Take me to the scene." He said simply, pulling on his coat and scarf as he walked briskly out of the apartment, his mind hungry. Things were about to get interesting.

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**A/N: **Continue posting? Quite writing a join a circus? Take up knitting? Well to bad, I already did that, but the first two options are still perfectly valid.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Posting this chapter as well because the first chapter by itself doesn't really explain anything at all.

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**Chapter 2**

The young woman lay across the pavement in the dirty alley, her face frozen in an expression of shock, fear and pain, her eyes closed and her hands clasped on her chest, as if in prayer. All around her a forensics team swarmed, looking for any evidence into how she died. Police officers had set up a cordon, and were holding back the small crowd of people who had gathered, there faces shocked and appalled.

Off to one side, officers were interviewing witnesses, three of them to be precise. The first, an elderly woman, Asian origin, wearing a hair net and an apron, most likely from the Chinese takeaway right across the run down street. She was wringing her hands, clearly distressed, as though she didn't want to believe what she had seen.

The second, a middle aged man, probably homeless. His coat was in tatters, his beard scruffy, and he eyed the police officers with open suspicion. But at the same time, he was frightened. Something had clearly been disturbing enough that he was willing to talk to the police, who homeless people tended to habitually avoid.

The third witness was a young man, probably a businessman of some description judging by the coat. He looked impatient at the delay, and kept glancing around the streets with something close to disgust. Clearly not a local then, just passing through, wrong place, wrong time, and anxious to get home. He did not seem frightened like the others, so he probably hadn't seen as much as they had. He had probably just spotted the body and been held for questioning. Useless then.

Sherlock's first impression was that the homeless man would be the best sort of information, if he could be persuaded to talk to him. People tended to ignore the homeless, forgetting they were even there. They were invisible, better than invisible, just fading into the background, and, as such, were a priceless source of information to the right person.

However, he was here to look at the body, not question the witnesses, that would come later. He crossed the police cordon, pretending not to notice Donnovan's look of steely disapproval, and cast his keen eye over the woman's body. She was about twenty years old, with long, red hair and pale skin. About six feet tall, and quite slender. He supposed she could have been described as beautiful, if she wasn't dead.

Of course he saw everything.

The first thing he noticed was the fingernails. They were chipped and broken, quite recently, and there was a small amount of blood underneath. He suspected that when he saw the suspect, he would have wounds caused by the victims fingernails. So she _had_ struggled. Moving on to her hands, he saw several scratches and scrapes, ranging from three days to a couple of hours old, judging by the way they had begun to heal.

The wounds did not look like the marks of an attack either, they seemed to have been caused by accidents, several accidents. Either the victim was incredibly clumsy, unlikely given no evidence of injuries beyond three days ago, or she had been acting unusual. Perhaps under the influence of drugs or alcohol then.

He examined the rest of her body, finding similar wounds seemingly caused by carelessness. There was one strange wound that did not match the others. A series of small scratches just under her left ear, of unknown causes. He could not see how those would have been accidental, however it was not in an area that an attacker would usually target. Those wounds seemed to be just over three days old, and, if he was judging correctly, were the oldest injuries on her body.

Unable to deduce what had caused them, he moved on to her clothing, and found another puzzle. She was wearing a business skirt and blouse, of good quality, and reasonably new. A professional then, obviously quite talented as she was quite young. She did not look like she belonged in this street, she obviously had enough money to dress well. Despite the expense of the clothes, they were filthy, crumpled and stained, and had been worn for at least three days. So she had not been home in three days.

Neither had she been taking care of herself, her hair was tangled and matted, as if she had not even taken the time to run her fingers through it. Quite unusual for someone with hair this long to not maintain it. She had been wearing light makeup three days ago and not bothered to wash it off. She was wearing a pair of black rimmed glasses, which she obviously wore all day, every day judging by the wear on the pads that sat on the bridge of her nose and the arms that rested against her ears, so her vision was quite poor.

However one lens had a spider web crack running through it, at least a day old judging by the fact that small fragments of dust had collected in the cracks. So the glasses had been broken before she was attacked, and she had not removed them. Surely she would have noticed, the cracks would have made it all but impossible to see out of one eye. With the quality of her clothing, she would have been able to replace them easily, however she had not. Had she simply not cared?

Everything added up to paint a picture of a woman who had been wandering about for at least three days without returning home, in a careless daze, perhaps completely unaware of her surroundings or her actions, not noticing when she injured herself.

Definitely under some sort of influence then, he would have to take a look at the toxicology reports to see what though.

Barely a minute had passes since he had kneeled next to the body, but he had seen _everything_.

"Do we know who she is?" He asked, standing and walking away from the body.

"We have her wallet. Driver's licence says her name is Stacey Cumberland. Works as a personal assistant for one of the larger law firms in London. She hasn't shown up for work since..."

"Tuesday the third." Sherlock finished for him. It was now Friday.

"How did you... never mind. Apparently she was acting perfectly normal up until after her lunch break on Tuesday, when she just stood up and walked out of the office as though she didn't even know what she was doing."

"Fascinating. I'll want to see her blood work as soon as possible. Right now I need to talk to one of the witnesses, preferably that one." He said, pointing at the homeless man.

Lestrade nodded to the police officer who was interviewing the increasingly wary man, and he walked away, allowing Sherlock to walk over to the man.

"Hello, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm just going to try and ask you a few questions about what you saw tonight."

The man got defensive, "I've already answered the police's questions. I don't see why they're keeping me here." He protested.

"Well sometimes the police don't ask the right questions," Sherlock said with a smirk, "There a bit short sighted that way. I'm guessing that the officer probably didn't pay to much attention to what you had to say, dismissing you as unintelligent because you happen to be homeless."

The man's eyes narrowed, "Yeah, that's right. What's it to you?" He crossed his arms, looking at Sherlock with a slightly challenging expression.

Sherlock's smirk grew, "I won't make that mistake. You saw something, didn't you. Something important, something _wrong_, something that didn't add up. Just tell me everything you saw, every little detail you can remember. I don't care how strange or how insignificant it seems, it could make all the difference in solving this case. Please."

The man sighed, "Alright, I suppose you know how to ask nicely, unlike some people," he muttered, "I was in this alley, sitting between a couple of cardboard boxes and trying to stay reasonably dry, when that woman there wanders into the alley. She looked... empty. Her face was completely blank, like she didn't know or care where she was, just wandering through these streets at night. I tried to tell her to go home, I mean, this isn't exactly the safest place at night, but she acted like she didn't even hear me. She just stood there, in the rain."

"A few minutes later, this man walks in. I mean, he looked a little strange, wearing a suit with a pair of red converse sneakers, and a big brown coat. He didn't seem to notice the rain either, just kept looking around like he was trying to find someone, but he wasn't looking with his _eyes_. He almost seemed to be _listening_ for something, but I couldn't hear anything other than the rain. I know it sounds a little crazy..."

"Go on." Sherlock said, his voice almost encouraging.

"Well, it seems he 'heard' whatever he was listening for, or whatever, because he turns to the woman and actually looks at her, calling out 'There you are!'"

"How did his voice sound? Angry, scared, happy?" Sherlock asked intently.

The man thought, "I don't know, determined, satisfied maybe? Like he's found something he's been searching for, but not really happy. He walked over to her, staring into her eyes, almost like he was concentrating on something. Then things got a little... weird."

"Weird how?"

"He walked up to her and placed his hands on her face, fingers on her temples, thumbs on her cheekbones and closed his eyes, like he was going into some sort of trance. After a few seconds of that, he started... well, he started _crying_! He didn't open his eyes, but tears streaked down his cheeks. He started speaking, but it was like he was talking to someone else, you know? Not the woman. He said something like 'Why did you do this to her? She was innocent! You didn't have to do this! Now I have no choice.' He pulled his hands away and opened his eyes." The homeless man shuddered, his eyes widening in fear.

"Oh those eyes, they were _furious_! He was like rage, and fire, and _death_, ancient and terrible, filled with such a dark determination. I don't care who knows it, I was _terrified_. I think that whoever he was speaking to was to. The woman's face didn't change, but she attacked him. Her motions were weird though, jerky, like something was controlling her. She scratched at him, hit him, slapped him, kicked at him, but he didn't move out of the way, just caught her arms and pulled something out of his pocket, a bit like a pen, but with a light on the end. He shinned the light at her head, and she started to scream, writhing in pain."

There were tears in the man's eyes now, "But it didn't sound like a woman's scream, it was to high, more like some sort of _creature_. But the man just held on, his face grim. After a little while, the scream ended, and it sounded like a woman again, she was crying and begging, pleading," He swallowed a sob, "'Please, it _hurts_' she said, whimpering and clinging to the man like he was the only thing holding her up. The dark look left his eyes, and he looked sad and empty. He lowered her to the ground, _gently_ if you'll believe it! He held her hand, stroked her hair and whispered to her. 'Shhh shhh, it's all over, it's gone' he whispered, 'I've got you, I've got you. I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry. It's gone now, it's gone.' It was so _strange_, but she... thanked him, just before she died. That's the last thing she said, 'thank you', like he hadn't killed her, like he hadn't make her scream and beg and plead, like he had _saved_ her.

Sherlock's mind was on fire, burning with the new information. He didn't know how it fitted yet, didn't know why a victim would thank her killer, didn't have a _clue_ what was going on, but that just made it all the more exciting.

"What did the man do then?" Sherlock asked.

"Her reached over and closed her eyes, smoothed down her hair and placed her hands on her chest, almost like he was _respecting_ her. 'Rest now' he whispered, and his voice was so _sad_. I was terrified now, I mean, I really thought he was going to kill me next! I mean, I had seen it, I was a witness and everything. He could have killed me and ran, but all he did was turn to me and ask me to phone the police. I told him I didn't have a phone, he reached into his pocket and I thought he was going to pull out a gun!"

"But he just tossed his mobile at me! I called the cops, he just _sat_ there, not running, not even looking like he cared that the cops were coming. I gave him back his phone, he _thanked _me, slumped against a wall and put his head in his hands, twisting his hair between his fingers. He seemed so... I don't know, sad, guilty, _lonely_?"

"Kept muttering to himself, saying 'I couldn't save them, not any of them. I can _never_ save them, not one _bloody_ person!' Kept slumped against the wall until the cops arrived. They asked me what happened, I just pointed at him. they dragged him up off the ground and slammed him against the wall, none to gently either, cuffed him and dragged him off. The whole time, he didn't fight, didn't say a word. I kept expecting him to run, or say he was innocent, I mean, that's what they all do, right? But he didn't."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed, he would _very_ much like to meet this mystery man. He was a puzzle, even more than the case, one that Sherlock would _enjoy_ taking to pieces.

"Thank you. You have been _very_ helpful." he told the man, pulling out a twenty pound note and handing it to the man. He didn't have to, hell, by the way the police officers were glaring at him they obviously thought it was a bad idea, but the man _had_ given him vital information. Information that the police officers would have overlooked, dismissing the man as crazy. What sort of attacker would apologies to his victim? What sort of victim would thank her attacker? No, it was far easier to assume the witness unreliable than to try and think of an answer that made any sort of sense.

With a predatory look in his eye, he strode over to Lestrade.

"I have everything I need from here. Now I need to talk to your suspect." He said simply, watching as the victim was zipped up in a body bag and taken to the morgue. He'd have to look over the body again later, after the autopsy, but for now everything hinged on the suspect.

Lestrade nodded, "Alright then. He was taken down to the station. A few of my men have been questioning him, but they don't seem to have gotten anywhere. Your more than welcome to see if you can get anything from him."

Sherlock nodded and headed towards the car, hardly able to contain his excitement. Yes, he was _very_ much looking forward to meeting this man.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Ok, so I was a little surprised by the amount of reviews I've gotten for this story. Really, you guys are great! Big thanks to Maloanne, Ali, Nataly Skypot, Thalianaa and Elvaro. I am glad you are enjoying the story.

As a thank you I am posting this chapter a little earlier than I had planned. Enjoy.

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**Chapter 3**

Sherlock walked into the station alongside Lestrade, a little spring in his step. Not even the sight of Sergeant Donnovan glaring at him could dampen his mood.

"Has he said anything yet?" Lestrade asked Donnovan.

"Oh, definitely. Nothing related to the case though. No matches on prints in our databases, no ID in his wallet, he won't even tell us his name. I'd try running the prints through military databases and see if we got a match there but the computer systems went down for some reason. Unless he tells us something we've got nothing to go on here." She said.

"Well we'll see if Sherlock can tell us anything about him after they've had a little chat." Lestrade said, clearly frustrated at the lack of progress.

"You'll like this one," she said bitingly at Sherlock, "He's a _freak_, just like you."

"Oh," Sherlock asked mildly, "In what way."

"Talks about things no one understands, acts like he's smarter than everyone else, looks down his nose at everyone. Remind you of someone?"

"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean Donnovan." he said with a smirk, walking into the observation room and staring intently at the suspect through the two way glass.

The man was tall and skinny, with a shock of spiky, brown hair and deep brown eyes, dressed in a brown pinstripe suit and red converse sneakers. He looked young, perhaps about thirty five, although he acted even younger, almost bouncing in his seat like an energetic child, his face split in a slightly manic seeming grin. His eyes though, while they usually looked so bright and full of life, every so often there was a flash of something... darker within them. For a moment Sherlock thought back to the way that the homeless man had described them, one word in particular springing to mind. _Ancient_. Those eyes were old, _very_ old.

Sherlock sighed in slight frustration, he'd have to get closer if he wanted to deduce anything noteworthy. As if he could feel someone looking at him, the suspect suddenly turned, grinning into the mirror, his eyes locking exactly with Sherlock's. That was... impossible. She shouldn't be able to see him or hear him. There was _no_ way he could know that someone was in there, let alone where that someone was standing, let alone where that someone's eyes were. As if he could tell what Sherlock was thinking, the suspect gave a smirk, and the tiniest hint of a wink, before turning back to the flustered looking officer.

"Sorry, how rude of me, you were asking something?" He asked, his eyes wide and innocent.

The officer sighed, looking like he wanted to punch the suspect, and, to be honest, Sherlock didn't blame him all that much. He seemed to be going out of his way to be infuriating.

"Yes, I was asking you what your _name_ is, for the hundredth time." The officer growled.

"Actually it's more like the thirty-sixth time." The suspect pointed out with a cheeky smile.

"What is your name?" The officer asked, all semblance of patience flying out the proverbial window.

"Thirty seven."

"Name!" Roared the officer.

"Alright, alright, no need to get snippy," The suspect says, raising his hands in a gesture of defeat, "You got me. I don't have one."

"What do you mean you don't have one?" Asked the officer tersely.

"Exactly what I said. I don't have a name."

"But you have to have a name. Everyone has a name!"

"That's a little boring isn't it, to be like everyone else? Who would want to do that?" The suspect asked, still grinning, although the smile never reached his eyes.

"But what do people call you?" The officer asked, talking like you would to a five year old, which just made the suspect grin even more.

"Lots of things!" He crowed, "Hey you, Mister, Spaceman, The Oncoming Storm. That last one's a bit presumptuous I know, but don't blame me, it's not like _I_ came up with it. There's a couple more names that I _really_ don't like, so I'm not going to say them. I had a few nicknames back at the academy but everyone who used them is gone now, so it doesn't really count, does it?"

The officer was looking at the suspect like he was completely crazy, and Sherlock suspected that the man was, in fact, at least a little bit insane. What he said sounded like complete gibberish, but Sherlock could tell that it was not.

He studied the man for a moment, trying to see if he was telling the truth or not, before he chuckled with delight. Oh yes, this man was _very_ intelligent. The man winked again, as if he had heard, even though that should have been impossible.

"Well if you won't tell me your name, could you at least tell me where you live?" The officer asked, conceding defeat on the issue of a name.

"Nowhere really. I don't have a fixed address at the moment."

"Well where was your _last_ fixed address."

"Oh, a long, long way away. Just a small little town in the middle of nowhere with my family. Of course that was a long time ago. The town's not there anymore." The man still smiled, but the grin seemed even falser than before, his shoulders slumped a little and his eyes flashing briefly with something that looked like pain.

"Where are you staying then, in a hotel? With family, friends?" The officer asked, confusion and frustration warring with something like pity.

"Not in a hotel, you need money to stay in a hotel, don't you?" He asked, feigning ignorance, "As for family, I don't have any. I suppose I might have some friends, somewhere, but they've all got better things to worry about than little old me, don't they?"

His voice was so casual, so bright and cheery as he described his life, as if he was trying to fool himself as well as the officer, it sounded false. It sounded like a bare faced lie, like a bad joke.

The police officer threw the man a disgusted look, "A young woman is dead because of you, and you have the nerve to make a _joke_! You're a monster." He stormed out of the room, leaving a suspect who looked somewhat like a kicked puppy.

Sherlock continued to study the man for some time, Lestrade standing beside him silently. At last he turned to Lestrade.

"I believe I am ready to have a little 'talk' with our suspect now. It should prove, quite... informative." He smirked, his eyes dancing with delight.

"You know something." Lestrade stated.

"I know _many_ things Lestrade, please, be specific." Sherlock quipped.

"Something about the _suspect_." Lestrade replied impatiently.

"Yes, I suppose I do. I will know even _more_ after I've talked to him."

Lestrade sighed, "Go ahead then."

Sherlock walked into the interrogation room, a smile on his face, and sat down into the chair recently occupied by the police officer, smirking slightly, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Oh, now _your_ something completely different, aren't you?" The suspect asked with a genuine smile, "Not like any of the others are you? When you look, you actually _see_. honestly I don't know how most humans can be so _daft_. Most of you can't see what's right in front of your own noses."

"I could say the same for _you_," Sherlock replied, his eyes holding a challenge as he gazed at the suspect, observing, deducing, thinking, oh _thinking_ so feverishly, "You are not nearly as foolish as you pretend to be, in fact, you are frighteningly intelligent. Perhaps even more so than me, if that's possible."

"Ooo look at you!" The suspect crowed, "So clever, so arrogant. God it must be maddening trapped on this planet with all these slow minded people. Because they can't see what you see, can they?" He asked, staring into Sherlock's eyes with the same calculating look that Sherlock was directing at him.

"And what is it that I can see?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Everything," The suspect breathed, almost reverently, "You see _everything_. You can't help it, can't switch off, can't help but _see_ every little detail that humans overlook. Because your brilliant, beyond brilliant, your _impossible_. I don't know how it happened, you should have gone mad by now, burned up your own brain. Go on, do me. Look, _really_ look. What can you see?"

In the observation room, Lestrade shuddered. It appeared that this man could read Sherlock like Sherlock read everyone else, and that thought was _terrifying_. Did they have another genius turned criminal on there hands? Someone who wanted to test themselves against the great Sherlock Holmes?

Meanwhile Sherlock narrowed his eyes, accepting the challenge. He stared at the suspect, analyzing every small detail, picking apart every piece of information, thinking, rationalizing, creating and rejecting theories on the spot as he observed this man, this _impossible_ man. He stared for a long time, minutes, longer than he had ever needed to observe.

"You, sir, are not what you appear to be." Sherlock said simply.

The suspect looked slightly disappointed, "Oh, come one, of _course_ I'm not. _Anyone _ could have figured that out, and your not just anyone. Try harder."

"Yes yes, I was getting to that," Sherlock says, "Your clothes tell us something. You have little or no regard for what is considered _normal_ fashion, as you pair a brown pinstripe suit with red converse shoes, not exactly a match made in heaven. Your suit is one you wear often, perhaps even every day, judging by the wear on the elbows of the jacket, but it is well cared for. Sentimental value perhaps? I rather doubt it, it doesn't seem old enough. Rather, you see your clothes as part of your image, your identity if you will, perhaps because you don't have a name, or, if you do, it's a name that you never tell anyone."

"You are used to walking and running, a _lot_ of running, judging by the state of your shoes. But what are you running from? Your clothes are a contradiction. You dress to impress, to persuade or even intimidate, to solve your problems with words, but you also dress to run, so obviously this doesn't always work. You do not carry a weapon of any sort, yet you are perfectly capable of defending yourself."

"Your build is rather athletic, although you have lost weight recently, indicating that you have either pushed yourself far to hard or eaten far to little, probably both. You have dark shadows under your eyes caused by lack of sleep. The state of your clothes indicates that you have not changed them in three days, however they are not wrinkled enough for you to have slept in them. Which leads me to assume that you have not slept in a least three days. Why? Do you perhaps suffer from night terrors? Are you to afraid to sleep?"

The suspect eyed him shrewdly, not giving anything away, although Sherlock felt that he was hitting close to the mark, and pressed on with enthusiasm.

"But let's go deeper, I have had time to observe the way you act and I am afraid that that is all it is, an act. You behave like you are carefree and naive, you like to come off as funny and cheerful, benevolent even. You have an almost manic energy, never sitting still, talking a mile a minute about things that make no sense, apparently just to hear the sound of your own voice. But that's the trick isn't it? As long as you keep talking, you keep peoples attention on what you are _saying_, not what you are _doing_. And it also draws attention away from what you are _feeling_."

"Because you are _not_ cheerful and carefree, you are not the smiling man you pretend to be. You wear that mask because if people knew the truth they would look at you differently, with revulsion, or, worse, with _pity_, because whoever you are, you are _not_ a happy man. Perhaps you used to be, perhaps the smiles used to be genuine, but they are nothing more than a mask now, a shadow of remembered joy. But even when you are alone, you wear that smile, keep smiling, keep pretending, maybe you can even pretend to yourself that you are not a broken man."

Sherlock smirked as his words hit there mark, he had wanted to take this man to pieces, but he hadn't expected to be doing it so literally. The suspects eyes widened, and he saw a brief flash of pain, before the mask was in place again. Part if him wanted to stop now, part of him screamed that he was being unnecessarily cruel, but he ignored it. This man was a suspect, and, if Sherlock was correct (and he usually was) he had definitely caused the death of that young woman.

"You travel constantly, never sticking in one place long enough to settle down. Why, what are you running from? You must be running from something, or perhaps you just started running one day and have _never_ been able to stop. What happens if you stop? Will someone catch you? Will you just stop and never be able to start again? What are you afraid of?"

"You are used to traveling with a companion, you keep looking over your shoulder like you expect someone to be there, only to catch yourself, telling yourself that you are alone, that there is no one to talk with, no one to share the world with. And when you tell yourself that, oh you look so _guilty_, like something _terrible_ happened to whoever you were traveling with, and it's all your fault."

"So you run, trying not to form attachments, trying not to put anyone else in danger, but you just can't help yourself. Your lonely, so so lonely. You know that your bad news, you _know_ that every time you drag someone along with you, you run the risk of destroying them, but you _still_ do it! You still put them in danger, because your _selfish_. If you truly cared about them, you would tell them to _run_ the moment they saw you."

"But there is more than that, there is _so_ much more. You tell the truth like it's a lie, acting like everything that comes out of your mouth is just a story, when it's _all_ true. You don't have a name, you don't have a home, you don't have a _family_, and your _friends_ are all better off without you!"

Sherlock stood, leaning over the suspect, his eyes dark and stormy, "Everywhere you go you find something to fight against, trying _so hard_ to prove yourself, _desperate_ to justify your own existence. You don't have a home. You don't have a name. You are _nobody_!" He hissed.

The suspect stood there in shock, his jaw slightly open, his eyes filled with sorrow, seemingly at a loss for words. Sherlock felt a surge of triumph, the man would confess, he was sure of it.

"You _are_ good," He said at last, his voice subdued, "But that's not everything you saw, is it? You saw something you can't explain, something you can't rationalize, something _impossible_. What was it?" His eyes were burning with an intensity that Sherlock did not expect.

He had looked at the suspect and seen a broken man, but he had been wrong. There was steel and fire in this man's soul, a raw determination so strong that he doubted even death would quench it. For the first time in a _very_ long time, Sherlock doubted himself.

"Why did you kill her?" He asked suddenly.

"Pardon?" The suspect asked, startled by the change of subject.

"Stacey Cumberland, why did you kill her?"

"Stacey Cumberland," the suspect said, as if he was locking the name away in his memory, "I never knew her name."

"Of course you didn't know her name, why would you care about her name, she was nothing to you, just a victim, just someone to kill! She didn't deserve to die, but you killed her!"

"It's not like that." The suspect said firmly, but Sherlock did not relent, he leaned over, getting in the suspects face, his eyes menacing.

"I get it, killing makes you feel in control, drowns out the loneliness, that's why you stay with your victim, that's why you stare into there eyes, that's why you hold them as they die! What I don't get is _WHY!_ Why were you so stupid, why didn't you kill the witness, why did you just stay and wait for the police! You're to clever to be caught, you know that there will be _no mercy_ for you! Why didn't you run?" Sherlock yelled, wanting answers, _needing_ answers.

The suspect stood up, his eyes furious, pushed beyond endurance.

"Because I _couldn't_ just leave her lying in that alley like a piece of trash! She was a human being, she deserved _better_! She deserved to be _saved_! But I couldn't save her, I can never save _any_ of them! Whatever I do, people DIE!" his voice was raised now, his eyes filled with rage and pain, "You're so clever, so much smarter than all the others, but still so _blind_, only seeing what you want to see, believing what you want to believe."

He was panting, his entire body shaking with the force of his emotional outburst. But as soon as it had come, the anger left, leaving only weariness in it's wake. The suspect ran a hand through his spiky brown hair, closing his eyes in defeat.

"Oh, but for all your faults, for everything you missed, you were right about one thing." He said tiredly, slumping back into his chair.

Sherlock sat down, surprised, "And what was that?" He asked curiously.

"Stacey Cumberland didn't deserve to die." He said simply, his eyes honest and his voice ringing with something like determination. He leaned back in the chair tiredly, his throat exposed and his eyes closed as if he was fighting a headache.

Sherlock was shocked. The more he talked to this man, the more he deduced, the less he understood. This man was the very definition of contradiction.

He was hollow and empty, he almost seemed to have a death wish, yet he had more fire and heat and _life_ inside than anyone Sherlock had ever known. He was filled with grief and sorrow and guilt, yet capable of such impossible amounts of joy and hope, even when everything seemed truly hopeless. He was capable of violence, such _incredible_ violence, his eyes spoke of a terrible darkness, the depths of which made Sherlock shudder in sudden fear, yet at the same time he seemed to abhor violence. He could have killed the witnesses, he could have fought, he was _more_ than capable of escaping through force, but he allowed himself to be captured, refusing to fight his way out.

He didn't say anything, just watched his suspect. He was a puzzle, a truly brilliant, marvelous, _baffling_ puzzle. Sherlock had never felt so challenged. He kept his face impassive, but inside he was rejoicing. At last there was a mystery worth solving. Who was this man?

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter was tricky to write. On one hand it was really easy to write Sherlock's observations about the Doctor, and I loved writing them, but it's so _mean_! I almost wanted to go back and change it all! But it was kind of necessary to have Sherlock and the Doctor on opposite sides to start with, and Sherlock _does_ seem to delight in picking people apart like that. So, thoughts? Tone it down, tone it up? Did I get the Doctor's characterization right? I've never written for either of these fandoms so I'm not sure if I have a feel for the characters yet.

Anyway, forgive the rambly authors notes, and don't hesitate to tell me what you think of it, even if you hate it.


	4. Chapter 4

**a/n: ** I have begun to draw illustrations for this story. If you want to take a look the link is on my profile.

Sorry this is a little late, I want to try and keep several chapters ahead of myself to avoid a repeat of my last story (nine months between chapters is _not_ a good way to treat your readers :(). Heres the next chapter.

Again, thankyou all for your reviews. They really do encourage me to write, every time I see one in my inbox it just makes me do a little happy dance (they really do, I swear my fiance looks at me funny sometimes). So, to everyone who has read and reviewed, thankyou.

* * *

Chapter 4

When the suspect opened his eyes again, the darkness was gone, his face was calm, almost relaxed. There was no pain, no despair, just... resignation. He stayed slumped in the chair, looking at Sherlock like he was seeing him for the first time.

"Ok," he said, his voice subdued, "I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything you need to know."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his voice hard and suspicious. Suspects didn't just decide to tell the truth without a good reason, not in his experience.

"You are right. Stacey Cumberland didn't deserve to die, especially not like that," the suspect said, swallowing as if he was nauseous, "_Nobody_ deserves to die like that."

"Die like what?" Sherlock asked intently, curious to find out the one thing that still baffled him, the cause of death.

"I'm assuming they're performing an autopsy?" The suspect asked, his voice flat.

"Of course."

"Tell them to check her brain. You won't believe me unless you see it for yourself." The suspect claimed.

"Check the brain? What are we looking for?" he demanded.

"No. I can't tell you, you'll just say I'm crazy. You'll have to see it for yourself. I really wish you didn't have to see it, I really wish you didn't have to know, but your not going to accept anything other than the truth, are you?" The suspect asked, smiling sadly.

"No," he said tersely, unable to shake the feeling that something was... off about this whole situation, "I am not."

"Good man." The suspect said, his face somewhere between joy and despair. Sherlock stared at him for a moment longer before he stood and handcuffed the suspect to the table, before walking calmly out of the room, heading for the autospy room.

Either the suspect was trying to get him out of this room so he could escape, which was unlikely because if the suspect _wanted_ to escape he _would_ have by now, or he was telling the truth, and Sherlock was about to find out how the victim had died. Either way was wonderful. Either way would reveal more information.

So Sherlock walked briskly down to the autopsy room, barely able to keep from rubbing his palms in excitement. After all, he had to remain professional, even if this _was_ the single most exciting case of his career.

* * *

The medical examiner, (an older woman, approximately fort-two years old with a no nonsense demeanor, widowed with two children, no wait, three children, although she had not talked with the third for quite some time as she disapproved of her offsprings... lifestyle choice) was not pleased about the interuption, but nonetheless agreed to humor Sherlock, after all, he had rarely been wrong before. Sherlock stood with visible anticipation as the examiner prepared to open the victim's skull, his dark eyes gleaming behind the protective mask.

"Ok, I'm starting the cranial autopsy now." The medical examiner said, her voice steady.

The high pitched drone of the electric saw cutting through bone filled the autopsy room, the examiner carefully removing the top of the skull to examine the brain.

"What the hell!" The woman shouted out, her voice filled with shock, resorting to what she viewed as profanity in her attempt to communicate the level of her surprise.

Sherlock did not blame her, not one bit.

The victims brain resembled, for want of a better word, _swiss cheese_. There were large cavities through the brain matter, and Sherlock could not think of a single thing that could have caused this sort of damage.

Perhaps the device that the suspect had pointed at the woman's head? No, that did not make any sense, several of the... holes in the victim's brain seemed to be to old, three days old if he had to guess. The same age as her oldest wounds, corresponding with approximately the time she walked out of her office.

This made no sense at all.

"Doctor," he said, his voice quite calm, drawing the medical examiner out of her daze, "Might we take a closer look at the brain?"

"Right, yes, of course!" The examiner said, still seeming to be in shock. Nevertheless she removed the brain, examining it more closely, particularly the strange holes that appeared all over it's surface, worming there way through the victim's brain as if something had _burrowed_ in.

Trying to steady shaking hands, the examiner began to cut the brain in half. As soon as she was finished, she leaned in, taking a closer look, before dropping her scaple with a scream.

"What the _bloody hell_ is that thing?" She screeched, pointing at the victim's brain with one trembling finger. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he moved in closer to see what had shocked the normally unflappable medical examiner so badly.

When he saw it he was barely able to keep from crying out himself, stepping back in surprise at the impossible sight that greeted him. There was something in the victim's brain, some sort of _creature_.

It resembled a leech of some sort, the mouthparts latched onto the victim's brain stem, but it was not like any creature Sherlock had ever seen or heard about. As well as what looked like a mouth gripping the brain stem with serrated teeth, there were several protusions on the creatures body, seemingly burrowed into various part's of the woman's brain. There was a _massive_ amount of damage.

"She shouldn't have been alive!" Sherlock said, hating the way his words came out like a gasp, "The damage is to great, and it's to old, she should have been dead _days_ ago, not _hours_ ago. How was she even walking around?"

"I don't know," the examiner breathed, "I've never seen _anything_ like this, not in twenty five years on the job!"

Sherlock was silent, examining the creature intently. His mind was a storm of thought, creating and discarding theories every few seconds, but none of them fitted. Without saying a word he walked out of the autopsy room, dertermined to get some answers off his suspect.

* * *

The suspect was still chained to the desk when he got back, fiddling idly with the cuffs and staring at the wall as if lost in thought, his eyes slightly worried. It was almost as if he had been expecting something to happen, and it hadn't. Sherlock didn't take the time to ponder what the suspect was worrying about however, he needed answers.

He strode into the room, pinning the man with his dark gaze, "What is it?" He demanded simply, "What is that thing inside her head? How was she still walking around when she should have been dead three days ago? How did she die? _What did you do_?"

The suspect drew his attention back to Sherlock, his face grave. "The creature inside her head is a type of parasite, but you already knew that. It's called a Tricollex, and it is one of the few species within this universe that I would willingly destroy," the suspects voice was filled with an icy determination, as if he actually had the power to do such a thing, "What it did to that poor woman is a natural part of it's life cycle. The creature's intelligence is limited by it's relatively primitive form, without a host it is capable of only basic thoughts, it's not even sentient, not really. When it infects a host however, it usurps their mind, their body, _everything_. Stacey Cumberland was lost three days ago. For the past three days her body has been wandering the streets of London, controlled by this creature."

"But it doesn't kill them," he said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, "I _wish_ it killed them, but it doesn't. It keeps the host alive, unable to move, unable to speak, a prisoner trapped inside their own body. And it _hurts_." His voice cracked a little, and he swallowed convusively.

"The host is aware of every moment, they can still see everything, they can still _feel everything_, they just can't _control_ anything. Stacey Cumberland suffered a fate far worse than death, and she was _terrified_. She was screaming in pain and horror, desperate for someone to hear her, begging for someone to help her, but no one could hear her. No one except me."

The suspect closed his eyes, "She was so _scared_! I could feel her screaming inside my head, feel her pain and fear as she tapped into the potential all humans have, but never use. I had to do something, I had to help her."

"But I was to late. By the time I found her the damage was irreversible. The parasite was the only thing keeping her alive. If I killed the parasite, she would die. If I let the parasite live, she would suffer until her body was destroyed, and she would be aware for every second of it. The parasite would start the next stage of it's life cycle. It would breed. The offspring would go on to infect, and breed, and infect, until the human race was bound in perpetual slavery so horrific it makes the Daleks seem merciful. So I had to make a choice."

The suspect opened his eyes, staring into Sherlock's, and Sherlock was stunned by the level of despair he could see. The suspect laughed, but it came out as more of a sob, bordering on hysteria.

"Because that's what I do!" he cried, "No matter how hard I try, no matter what I do, it _always_ comes back to a choice. And every time I choose, people _die_. And it's always _my fault_! And I lose, I lose _everything_." He was breathing hard and fast, his eyes glittering with unshod tears. With what seemed like a great effort, he got himself under control, wiping at his eyes with his free hand.

"Sorry about that," he said with a choked laugh filled with self-disgust, "Lost it for a second or two there."

Sherlock said nothing for a moment, just watched the suspect, fascinated and disturbed at the same time as the man unravelled before his eyes, due in no small part to him. Despite all the evidence indicating that this man was a killer, an insane one at that, he felt... sorry for him. It wasn't pity, it was deeper than that, compassion perhaps? That was strange, he rarely felt compassion, even for people who deserved it, so why did he feel it for _this_ man?

"What happened?" He asked, his voice soft, almost kind.

The suspect looked at him, mildly surprised at the change of tone, "I made my choice. I killed the parasite with a sonic burst. It wouldn't kill a human, it wouldn't even _hurt_ a human, my device was never designed to be a weapon. The parasite's physiology is different though. So I killed it."

He sighed, "Once it was dead I knew the host wouldn't survive long. She had a moment only, less than a minute. Your right. I could have run, I knew the police would show up eventually, I knew I'd be arrested, but I wasn't going to leave her alone. She was scared, she was in pain, and all I could do was hold her hand and tell her it was over, I couldn't even lie and say she was going to be ok, because she knew she was dying. She thanked me, in the end. I don't know why, I couldn't save her, all I could do was stop that creature from using her to hurt more people."

"I could still have run, I suppose. I would have gotten away, you never would have been able to find me if I decided to run. I didn't want to leave her alone though, not even in death, she deserved better than that. She deserved better than me, she deserved someone that could save her properly, someone who could do more than just hold her as she died. So I just waited for them to show up, didn't I? Isn't that just _pathetic_? I _should_ have run, I love running normally, can't get enough of it, every other day I seem to be sprinting away from someone who's trying to kill me, but I just let myself be dragged away."

"I must be going insane," he chuckled dryly, "Although I suppose from your perspective I already seem pretty insane. Alien parasites? Silent screams that only I can hear? Can't say I blame you, even I think it's crazy sometimes."

Sherlock scrubbed his face with his hand, feeling strangely tired, "It doesn't matter," he sighed, "Regardless of whether or not you are telling the truth, the courts will never accept such a testimony. They'll call you a liar, maybe rule you criminally insane and put you in a psychiatric ward, or you'll just go to prison for a very long time. Either way, you really should have run."

The suspect laughed once more, throwing his head back in bitter mirth, his usual manic energy returning, but it seemed far darker than before "Oh, I somehow don't think I'm going to get a trial. No, before you get a chance to do more than read me my rights _they'll_ show up. You see, all this time I've been sitting here, wondering why I haven't been able to get in touch with anyone who could actually help me, because they _really_ should have found me by now, I mean I kicked up enough noise running around London looking for the parasite, someone should have noticed something wierd, and then I'd have UNIT and Torchwood Cardiff all over the place, unless someone has been purposefully keeping them occupied. And theres only one group of people currently on earth with the means and motivation to keep them from finding me. And that is very bad news for me."

"Why? Who is coming for you? Why do they want you? _Who are you_?" Sherlock asked earnestly, "Tell me. I can try and help you."

The suspect laughed and it was almost genuine, "Oh look at you! You almost sound like me! No, I'm sorry, I don't think you can help me. No one can help me now. I'm on my own."

"Who are you? I know you don't have a name, but you have to call yourself something, a nickname, a designation, a title? Something? _Anything_?" Sherlock almost begged.

The suspect looked at Sherlock, looked at him like he was peering into his soul, seeing who he was, who he _truly_ was. It was like what _he_ did, but deeper. At last he smiled. It was not a particularly happy smile, it was filled with regret and resignation, and something like longing.

"I'm The Doctor."

"That's not a name, that's a title." Sherlock stated.

"It's all I have." the suspect replied with a small smile, as if he had said this before sometime.

"Well, 'The Doctor' it is then. I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Pleased to meet you Sherlock Holmes. I'd love to stay and have a nice chat with you, you are really quite remarkable, for a human, but I'm afraid my time is up," he raised his eyebrows humorously, a cheery grin on his face masking the fear just below the surface, "Oh, imagine that, a Time Lord and time is the one thing I don't have."

"Why, what do you mean your time is up?"

"They're here." The Doctor stated, his face grim and his voice deadly serious, "Torchwood London is here."

* * *

End of part 1

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**a/n:**If you are enjoying the story please let me know by pressing the little button :)


	5. Chapter 5

**a/n: **Sorry this to so long, I got whumped in real life again and lost my job, so my muse was kinda grumpy at me. I coaxed it out with some cheap chocolate (mothers day sales ftw!) and finished a chapter so now I can post this one.

I am so glad that people are enjoying this story! I just wish there was more Wholock with Ten in it, because if it's half as fun to read as it is to write I would probably never read anything else.

So, anyways, enough real life stuff. Perspective switches from Sherlock to the Doctor now, and will stay there for several chapters.

Enjoy!

* * *

Part 2

Chapter 5

* * *

The Doctor sat up straight in his chair, fixing a slightly manic smile on his face. He hadn't expected to be verbally attacked quite so... effectively. The consulting detective's words had hurt, it hadn't exactly been pleasant to have the man pick him apart like that. However most of what he had said was the truth, so, in a way, he had deserved it. He might regret it, but he wasn't about to deny it. He _was_ nothing, just the last echo of a dead race, drifting through time and space forever.

He had let his mask drop today, he had shown the incredibly intelligent Sherlock Holmes a glimpse of what was underneath, shown him what even his closest companions had never seen. He still wasn't completely sure why he had been so open with Sherlock. Perhaps it was because of his intelligence. Perhaps it was because he would have seen most of it anyway. Perhaps it was because he thought that Sherlock, unlike most of his companions, could handle the whole truth. Or perhaps he was just tired of having to hide it all the time, the darkness and the pain and the loneliness that had haunted his every step even before Gallifrey had burned.

Whatever the reason, Sherlock had seen the truth, or at least part of it, seen who he was underneath the cheerful grin and the light words. That didn't mean he would let his enemies see his weakness. If he smiled enough, laughed enough, joked and grinned and seemingly took nothing seriously then perhaps he could even fool himself for a while and make this all a little easier to bear.

Because one thing was for sure, things were about to get very, _very_ bad for him. He had suspected when no one from UNIT or Torchwood Cardiff had shown up to bail him out that something was wrong, even before then he had been a little worried. He had been hearing whispers, rumors of the old regime reappearing, the old Torchwood, 'If it's alien, it's ours' returning with a vengeance. All aimed at him of course, after all, not only was he the reason it was founded, he had been there when the first Torchwood fell. Some people survived, some people had an axe to grind, and the blame, as always, sat squarely on his skinny shoulders.

So when the door burst open and six armed men stormed the room he did not even blink, just met there gazes with a smile.

"Hello!" He said, his voice light and friendly, "I was wondering when you were going to show up. I have to admit, I was beginning to feel a little put out, I mean after you went to so much trouble to send Cardiff on a wild goose chase in _Antarctica_ and keep UNIT well and truly out of the loop I thought you would have found me earlier. Honestly, I'm a little disappointed."

The armed men said nothing, just stood pointing the barrels of their weapons squarely at his chest as a seventh man walked in, clapping his hands slowly.

"Oh Bravo Doctor, Bravo indeed. How on earth did you figure that one out?" Asked the seventh man. He was middle aged, bald, a little shorter than the Doctor and quite a bit bulkier, and something about him set his teeth on edge. Maybe it was the smooth smile, or the predatory gleam in his eyes, or the way he was eyeing him, assessing his worth as if he wanted to buy him, as if he were nothing more than an object, or maybe livestock. It made his skin crawl.

Of course he let none of his unease show, "Ah, the slow, sarcastic clap. Do they teach you that? Because last time I ran across you lot I got clapped to. Then you tried to take me prisoner and nearly brought about the end of the universe. Well done by the way, really, a spot on job, you couldn't have screwed up better if you had tried. As for how I found out where you sent the good Captain Jack and his team," he pulled a phone out of his pocket, looking at Sherlock apologetically as the other man checked his pockets in disbelief, "Sorry by the way, sticky fingers. You can have it back now."

He tossed the phone to Sherlock with a wink, beaming at the man who was apparently in charge. "So, what now? I'm assuming this isn't just a social visit. I'd offer you all some tea but I'm a bit tied up right now!" He quipped, shaking his wrist to make the handcuffs jingle.

"Well I'm afraid your going to have to come with us, after all, we've waited an awfully long time to get our hands on you again since your lucky escape last time," the bald man said, his voice suddenly menacing, "This time will be different, no guided tours, no special treatment, no making you _comfortable_ in the hopes that you will help us. Either you help us willingly, or we will _force_ you to comply. And I'll tell you a secret, I _hope_ you'll try to resist us, just so I can wipe that smug grin off your face."

The Doctor met his glare with an even gaze, never taking his eyes off the man who was to be his captor. He knew that things were going to get bad, that it would be easier for him if he just gave them what they wanted, but since when did he take the easy path.

"Well, I'll try not to disappoint," He said with a slight edge to his voice, "I wouldn't want things to get _boring_."

"You can't just take that man away!" Sherlock protested, "He has information vital to an ongoing case."

"Your case has moved jurisdiction. It's our case now," The bald man said smoothly, "Rest assured that this man will pay dearly for his crimes."

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded.

"Benjamin Stykes, head of Torchwood London. Who the hell are you?"

The Doctor shook his head slightly at Sherlock, trying to warn him to back off. The man was to intelligent for his own good, and the Doctor didn't want him getting into trouble with Torchwood. Of course he didn't expect him to listen to his warning, no one ever did.

"Sherlock Holmes, and I'm sorry, but I can't let you take him, and you have no authority to order me to leave this case alone." Sherlock said, placing himself between Stykes and the Doctor, his voice scathing.

"We have the authority to order the police off this case," Stykes snapped, "So I am ordering you to _stand aside_."

"Well I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am _not_ with the police. I am a consultant, they bring me in when they can't solve there own cases. You have no authority over _me_." Sherlock said smugly.

The Doctor groaned out loud, "Oh, you shouldn't have told them that Sherlock, now there going to have to come up with another way to keep you quiet."

Stykes ignored the Doctor, staring at Sherlock shrewdly, "How much has this man told you?" He demanded.

"Well, I know enough to know that the crime I was investigating was no ordinary crime, the suspect is no ordinary man, _you_ are no ordinary law enforcement agency and whatever killed Stacey Cumberland was not human, nor did it seem to be a creature found naturally on earth, so I am led to believe that is was either some form of genetic experiment, or that it did not originate from this planet. Neither sounds particularly plausible, but once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

"Oh I like that!" The Doctor said with a grin, "You're brilliant Sherlock Holmes, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Yes, several times in fact." Sherlock said with a small smile.

"Well," interrupted Stykes, "We seem to have a bit of a problem then. Because, Sherlock Holmes, you already know far to much for us to just let you go. I am afraid you will be coming with us as well."

"You can't do that!" Protested Sherlock, "I have committed no crime!"

"Just let him go," The Doctor begged, not wanting anyone to get hurt because of him, enough people had fought and died on his behalf, "He won't tell anyone, besides, who would believe him. I'm the only one you need, there is no reason to take him as well."

"Oh but Doctor, there is. Even if he knew nothing, the way you're protecting him indicates that you care about him, that you don't want anything to happen to him. You see I was planning on using the dear Doctor Martha Jones as leverage, or perhaps that _freak_ Jack Harkness, but people might kick up a fuss if they disappear. This way is better. You will come with me, and you won't try to escape, because if you do then Sherlock Holmes will get a bullet straight into that lovely brain of his. You don't want that to happen, do you?"

"Please, just leave him alone," the Doctor tried again, "I'll come quietly, I won't try anything clever, you can do whatever you like to me, just leave that man alone. Wipe his memory if you have to, just let him go."

"Oh, I'll let him go eventually, when I'm sure you won't fight back or try to escape. Until then, just keep in mind, if you misbehave then Sherlock will suffer the punishment." He nodded to his men, and two of them stepped forwards. Sherlock was cuffed securely, and the Doctor's cuffs undone and redone so he could be frogmarched out of the interrogation room.

As the Doctor and Sherlock were dragged away to who knew where, the Doctor noticed that several police officers were looking at them curiously, as if wondering why Torchwood was taking Sherlock as well. Some of them looked worried, some of them had small smiles on there face, as if they had expected something like this to happen one day.

One woman was grinning openly, "So they finally decided to lock you up freak? Knew that was going to happen."

"Oh use your eyes Donnovan," Sherlock snapped, ignoring the Stykes' glare, "This isn't about me. I'm just being dragged along for the ride. Tell John not to worry would you?" he managed to get out before he was shoved out the door and into the back of a waiting van.

The Doctor was shoved in roughly after him, falling flat on his face as he couldn't use his hands to stop his fall. He raised his face off the vans floor, looking around and noting all the locks, all the security just to keep him in the van. A lot of precautions to take for little old him, even if he had his sonic screwdriver he doubted he'd be able to get out. Torchwood certainly knew what they were doing this time around.

The door was slammed loudly and the van began to move. He lifted himself off the floor, wincing slightly, and sat slumped against the wall of the van with a sigh, closing his eyes wearily. Sherlock had been right, he hadn't slept in days, hell, he hadn't slept at all since what happened on Mars, and that was nearly a week ago. He really wished that Sherlock had just listened to him instead of getting himself taken along.

"You ok?" He asked, cracking one eye open. He was surprised that the other man wasn't acting concerned, any normal person would probably be freaking out right about now.

"Fine," Sherlock said, sounding more annoyed than anything, "Do you know where they're taking us?"

"No idea, there last headquarters was Canary Wharf, but I know they have designed or modified several facilities all around London. They could be taking us pretty much anywhere, but my guess would be an office building of some description with a rather large basement, only accessible if you have the right key. Of course they'll be a secondary entrance for vehicles, they wouldn't want us seeing where we are in case one of us managed to escape."

"So, if we don't know where we are going, and they're not going to let us see where we are, how _do_ we escape." Sherlock asked.

"We don't," the Doctor said bluntly, "They're never going to let me out alive, I'm to dangerous. The moment they even suspect I'm planning an escape they'd shoot me, or something equally unpleasant, and drag my body down into the labs. Then they'd kill you. You might have a chance, but I wouldn't risk it if I were you. They'll let you go eventually, after wiping your mind anyway. You won't remember me, or anything that happened to you after meeting me. Just sit tight, you'll get out of this eventually."

"And what about you?" Sherlock asked, his eyes suddenly worried, "Will you get out?"

The Doctor looked at him, deciding whether or not it was worth lying to make him feel better. He might have tried it, but he didn't think Sherlock would fall for anything but the truth.

"I don't know. Maybe if I can keep my head down for long enough they'll get careless, maybe I'll be able to slip away. Maybe one of my friends will be able to find me. But I'm not going to do anything stupid. I'm not risking your life in the hopes that I'll be able to escape."

"Why?" Sherlock yelled suddenly, his eyes accusing, "Why do you care what happens to me? We've just met, you don't even know me, who am I to you? You _know_ there going to hurt you, they were very clear about that. Why would you suffer for me?"

"Because you're innocent!" The Doctor snapped, "You don't deserve to die just because I was stupid enough to get myself caught."

"Oh, I am _far_ from innocent." Sherlock said darkly.

"Whatever you've done your more innocent than me," The Doctor said, his voice even darker than Sherlock's, "It doesn't matter anyway. Either I die in those cells or I die somewhere else, it's all the same to me."

Before Sherlock could ask him what he meant, for which he was thankful because he really didn't want to answer, the van stopped. The doors were flung open and he looked out to see that it was completely surrounded by men pointing there assault rifles directly at his chest. It was, unfortunately, a familiar experience. He picked himself up off the floor of the van and stepped out slowly, not betraying any fear or apprehension at the sight of so many weapons pointed at him, just glaring stonily at his captors.

"Take him down to the labs." Stykes ordered, and he was marched away, his head high and his back straight. The last thing he saw in that room was Sherlock's slightly worried face.

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**a/n:** Next chapter should be up by Friday.


	6. Chapter 6

**a/n:** So here is the update, as promised. Updates may slow down for a little while until I can work out the stubborn chapter I am up to at the moment, but I am still three chapters ahead of myself, so it should be fine.

Thanks again for all the reviews, I am not sure how well I'm writing from the Doctors perspective, so the encouragement is appreciated.

This chapters a bit shorter, but things should start to pick up again soon. Enjoy.

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Chapter 6

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"So," the Doctor said conversationally to the blonde scientist who was using stolen alien technology to scan him, "How did Torchwood one reform anyway, I thought Jack took care of all the loose ends after Canary Wharf."

The scientist stiffened, her face angry, "Don't talk about Canary Wharf," she hissed, "I had friends there, and it's _your_ fault they died. 'Captain' Harkness did try to recruit those of us who were left, but we didn't want to work for him. He's not even human anymore, he's as bad as _you_. Those of us who were still loyal waited for our chance to reform. When he went missing for a few months about a year ago we got that chance." She smiled a cold, smug smile, clearly enjoying having him in her control.

The Doctor's expression didn't change, but internally he was beginning to grow a little apprehensive. It seemed that this new Torchwood was made up of people who had a grudge against him, who would cheerfully make him suffer with the slightest provocation. He supposed he could behave, act the part of a cowed prisoner, give them just enough to keep them happy, to keep them from hurting him to much, but looking into her eyes, he knew that would not stop them.

They were going to hurt him no matter what he did, he knew that much. He would not back down, he would not submit, he would not give them anything unless they could take it by force, he would not let them _beat_ him. It didn't matter what they did to him, not really. He was going to die anyway.

The knowledge sat deep in his hearts, it chilled him to the bone. He had faced death before and laughed, he had thrown himself into danger without a second thought and had never shown more than a causal regard for his own safety. Martha had even gone so far to accuse him of having a death wish after he had stood in front of the Daleks and asked them to kill him. But it was one thing to face death in battle, or while running for your life, in the heat of the moment when the blood was coursing through your body, when your hearts were beating oh so fast and adrenalin rushed through your veins it was easy to face death. But to know it was coming, to live every day with the fear that it could be your last, that was hard. More than hard, it was cruel, and just once he wished that he could be ignorant again. Still, just because he had to die didn't mean he had to die a coward.

So he raised his eyes, staring into the scientist's, and matched her stare with one of his own. His was not filled with hate or disgust though, or the need to dominate and destroy, not like hers, no. His was filled with stubbornness and passion, with a deep seated determination, and with the silent declaration that he would _not_ surrender.

She looked away impatiently, unwilling to meet those eyes, and settled for driving a needle into his arm far harder than she needed to take some blood. He gritted his teeth and stifled the urge to flinch away from the needle, letting her take his blood, her brow furrowed slightly as she noticed the slight difference in color. He couldn't stop them from studying _him_, but he sure as hell wasn't going to help them get information about anyone else. He had seen what Torchwood was capable of, he knew that if they viewed a species as a threat to the 'empire' they would not hesitate to destroy it. They were not above genocide, they were not above _anything_ to get what they wanted.

Next was a tissue sample, which made him grit his teeth as again she was rougher than she had to be, seeming to delight in causing him any sort of discomfort.

"Now I _hate_ to ask," she drawled arrogantly with a predatory grin, "But I need to know if you're allergic to anything, just so we don't kill you to soon by accident."

He rolled his eyes, "Aspirin. It's lethal to Time Lord's, even in low doses. Anything containing aspirin, or derived from aspirin, or related to aspirin, hell, anything that could possibly have _touched_ aspirin."

"No aspirin," she said, her voice bored, "got it."

The guards continued to drag him around the room to various pieces of equipment, the scientist scanning him with each one, recording the results. He didn't try to resist the tests, didn't say anything as he was poked and prodded and examined. At least, not until they tried to remove his clothes.

"Oi, I'm not letting you lot see me naked! I may be an alien but I still have a sense of modesty." He protested indignantly.

"We need to take photos for comparison, the scans can only tell us so much," The scientist explained reasonably, "If it makes you feel any better we'll let you wear your boxers."

"Yes, _thank you_ for the consideration," He said scathingly, removing his suit, shirt and tie with reluctance, "Take care of that suit, it's one of a kind."

"Oh don't worry, it will be kept safe." The scientist smirked, examining him like an insect under a microscope, the intensity of her gaze making his skin crawl.

Her eyes lingered on his back for some time, and he knew she was studying the handful of fine white scars that criss crossed otherwise smooth skin. They were faint, as if they had occurred a long time ago, but they were only a little over a year old, souvenirs of his time with his 'old friend' the Master aboard the Valiant. There was also the circular mark, like a burn on his chest, where the Dalek had shot him. His hearts beat a little faster at the memory, the pain, the certainty that he was going to die and regenerate, the feeling of pure fire burning throughout him, healing him yet at the same time threatening to rip him apart. It had only been a perfect mixture of luck and quick thinking that had saved him from regenerating, and it had been far to close for comfort.

Most of his wounds healed without scarring, it took a truly massive injury to mark a Time Lord permanently. He wondered grimly just how far these 'scientists' would go to test him, and just what state he would be in when they were done with him.

The scientist continued to examine him, finally producing a camera and taking pictures from every angle, getting in the 'before' shots he figured. As he watched the scientist gather data he sighed mentally, if, no, _when_ he got out of here, he would have to delete all the data and destroy the samples. It was far to dangerous to allow anyone to have samples of Time Lord DNA. Just the thought of the damage someone could do with even a single cell if they knew enough was terrifying.

It wouldn't do Torchwood much good, they didn't know what to do with it, but it would make them a target. Entire empires would go to war for just a scrap of that power, and none of them cared one bit about certain category five planets that might get in the way.

For a brief moment he wondered why he should still feel the need to protect humans, even from themselves. Surely he had done enough, saved them from being destroyed countless times, maybe it was time to let someone else do the job. It's not like they ever thanked him, all they ever did was view him as a potential threat, someone to be locked up or killed if his usefulness ever ran out. Even his companions, the best and brightest the Earth had to offer, left him in the end. Every time they did, they took a little bit of his hearts with them. He should just turn his back on this world, and let it burn.

He shook himself, dragging his mind away from thoughts like that. He would _not_ go down that road, it was to dangerous. He wasn't a fool, he _knew_ he was dangerous, he _knew_ what he was capable of. If he let himself stop caring, if he stopped trying to protect innocent lives, then what next? He knew himself, and he knew that he could easily become a tyrant if he wanted to. He had the power, all he would have to do was be willing to use it for his own benefit. And it scared him.

He firmly clamped down on all the dark thoughts, suppressing them and smiling defiantly, determined to be happy and cheerful and manic. The guards gripped there weapons tighter, clearly uncomfortable with their prisoner's glee. The scientist scowled unhappily, she obviously wanted him to be afraid and uncomfortable.

Well that was just to bad. He was going to be his usual hyperactive, overly cheerful self, and there wasn't a damn thing they could do to stop him.


	7. Chapter 7

**a/n:** Sorry this is a little late, I had meant to post it yesterday but some of my friends kidnapped me for a random adventure that ended with us having ice cream near the beach at sunset (in other words, an _awesome_ adventure).

Anyway, here is the next chapter. Enjoy.

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chapter 7

He winced as he was thrown roughly into the cell, unable to keep himself from hitting the ground. Hard. He ran his tongue quickly over his teeth, checking for damage (he _really_ didn't want to loose these teeth!) Satisfied that everything was still in place, he lifted his head off the floor, taking in the whitewashed back wall, the conspicuous lack of a window, and the thick metal bars that encircled the other three sides. The cell was bare of almost all physical comforts, containing only a small screened off area for certain necessary bodily functions and two foam mats. Looking closer at the bars he could see a slight shimmering in the air, indicating that there was some sort of force field in place as well as the bars.

At last he gave up studying his cell and looked at his cell mate. Sherlock Holmes was staring at him, something almost like concern in his dark eyes. He looked himself over briefly, trying to figure out why the other man was worried. He wasn't bleeding, he wasn't particularly bruised and the scars across his back were covered, thankfully, buy the set of white scrubs that he had been given in place of his suit.

"Are you injured?" Sherlock asked finally.

"I'm fine. Maybe a little bruising from the rough landing but nothing to complain about." He assured him with a smile, trying to put the other man at ease.

"You were gone for quite some time. I... did not know what to expect." Sherlock confessed, which was as close as he was going to get to saying he had been worried.

He smiled lightly, genuinely, "I'm fine Sherlock. They just did some tests, took some samples, got a baseline to go off so that they know what's normal for me for when they start 'experimenting' later."

Sherlock frowned slightly, "Why have they gone to so much trouble to apprehend you if all they want is to run some experiments? Surely they could have just picked someone off the streets if they're after a test subject." He said, eyes shrewd and calculating.

The Doctor's mouth twitched into a small smirk. He could just come out and tell Sherlock what he was, and why Torchwood was so desperate to get their grubby little hands on him, but where was the fun in that?

"Why don't you see what you can deduce about me Sherlock," he challenged, "You can see so much, more than any other human I've ever met, surely you can see it. But you have to look, and I mean _really_ look. You were nearly there last time, but you stopped, you pulled back, because you saw something that made no sense. Something you couldn't explain. Something impossible. What was it?"

Sherlock studied him for a moment longer, before averting his eyes, "I don't know what your talking about."

"Oh but you did! Because you're brilliant! You saw it all, the good, the bad, and the downright impossible. Everything you saw is true," he grimaced slightly, having someone pick apart all your faults and figuratively slap you in the face with them wasn't exactly a pleasant experience,"Well, more or less. Now look a little deeper, see what others can't, or _won't_ see. You can see it, I _know_ you can see it. The truth. Who I am, who I _really_ am."

Sherlock's eyes snapped back to him, looking almost guilty for a second, "You look to be about thirty five years old but you are much, _much_ older. You are very intelligent, more intelligent than me and I used to think that was impossible. You've seen and done great and terrible things, dark things, things your not proud of, and you carry around so much guilt. To much for any person to bear."

"But you've saved people. Don't ask me how I know that, because I'm not to sure myself, but you have, You've dozens, hundreds, thousands of people, and they never even know. Obviously you never stick around long enough for them to thank you, you just keep moving, saving more people, because you feel that you have to. I don't know what you did, why you feel so much guilt, but whatever it is it's so terrible that you think no matter what you do you will never be able to atone for it. So you don't try. You're not looking for forgiveness, you can't have it, you don't think you deserve it, maybe you don't even want it. But you still save people, not because you have to, or because you think you'll be rewarded, but because you want to."

"You are an impossible man. You look like you are only thirty five, yet you have seen and experienced so much more than any one man could, several lifetimes worth at least. You have knowledge of things that seem impossible, you speak of alien parasites like they're an everyday occurrence. Torchwood wants you so they can study you, which forces me to conclude that you're not human. A few years ago I would have said that was ridiculous, and it still is, but with alien spaceships falling from the sky every few months I suppose anything must be possible. You're not human."

He grinned, pleased that he had found someone smart enough to work it out for themselves, "You're right, you absolutely right. I'm an alien. You're brilliant, I know I say it a lot, but you really are. All humans are brilliant, but your mind... I wonder how it happened? You say I'm an impossible man, but your even more impossible. Most humans, seeing what you see everyday, they'd go insane. And I don't mean a little insane, everyone's a little insane, like 'oh this person looks like an otter, and this person looks like a hedgehog' or 'I know what we be a fun idea, lets tape some pop tarts to a cat and throw it though space to ride a rainbow, maybe it will even sing!'. No, I mean really truly, deeply insane, like juggling chainsaws or frying bacon shirtless insane."

He chuckled in disbelief, with everything that had been happening he hadn't really gotten around to telling Sherlock who, or more accurately, _what_ he was yet. He had thought the man would work it out, clever as he was, but then again humans were always so determined _not_ to believe in aliens that until they were confronted with absolute proof the thought would not even cross their minds.

Sherlock looked a little stunned, "You really like to talk, don't you?"

"Sorry," He said, a little embarrassed, "Little quirk of this regeneration, I _really_ love the sound of my own voice, and I'm a little rude if I do say so myself. Still, I'm rather fond of it, although I seem to get mixed responses. I've been called 'slim, and a little bit foxy' by an insane 'pure' human in a hospital on New Earth while she was possessing my body, which was a little bit of a confidence boost because I still wasn't quite used to it. Of course the last person I was traveling with like to call me 'just a long streak of nothing' and she lamented that she couldn't hug me without getting a paper cut. So really, I'm not too sure, but _I_ like it." He continued, smiling happily, he always felt better when he had someone to talk to.

"Right... so are we going to discuss the whole 'alien' thing, or are you to busy thinking about your body image." Sherlock said snarkily.

He just smiled, "Oh, I _like_ you Sherlock Holmes, your clever and rude and you don't care what people think of you. It's _brilliant_. So, back to the alien thing!" He said, bringing his palms together and almost bouncing, his manic energy returning just because there was someone else in the room, "Yes, I'm an alien. I have two hearts, two livers, and my body temperature is about 16 degrees Celsius. Every aspect of my physiology is considerably more advanced than a humans, and I can withstand things that would kill a human outright with little to know long term consequences. No, you don't have to believe me, but it's the reason that we're both here. These lovely people are part of an organization called Torchwood which was formed in 1879 because Queen Victoria got her knickers in a knot after I saved her from a werewolf, anyway, that's a different story, you don't want to hear about that now, maybe later."

"So, Torchwood doesn't like me very much, or at least, the _original_ Torchwood which these guys reformed doesn't like me that much. They were formed to hunt me down and either imprison or eliminate me. I few years back they caught me, but they were meddling with something so far beyond there knowledge that they ripped open a hole in the universe, well, ripped a _bigger_ hole in the universe, there was already a hole in the universe. Anyway, two _very_ nasty types of alien came through that hole and into Torchwood London. I managed to stop it, but not before the majority of the old Torchwood was destroyed, and not before I... lost someone very important to me."

His face fell momentarily as he thought of Rose, but he pushed the thoughts away stubbornly. She was safe and she was happy with his duplicate who was more capable of loving her the way she deserved.

"With Torchwood London gone, Torchwood Cardiff took over the defense of this country, led by my good friend Captain Jack Harkness, and they're doing a decent job, well, a better job than London was doing. As far as I know Jack hasn't unleashed Daleks or Cybermen on anyone yet. Still, he apparently missed some people loyal to the old regime and they decided to reform, taking advantage of an unfortunate drop in Cardiff's numbers to regain power. Now these stragglers, following there charter to the letter naturally perceive me as an alien menace. More than that, they blame me for the destruction of the old Torchwood, so I'm assuming things are probably going to get rather unpleasant for me soon."

"So, any questions?" He asked expectantly, eyebrows raised.

"Well, if your an alien, what are you doing on earth? I mean, what's here that could possibly interest a nine-hundred and six year old alien from a planet with two suns?" Sherlock asked, obviously curious.

"Oh, don't say that!" He said cheerfully, "Earths a great little planet, and humans are usually fun to hang around, well, most of you are. To be honest I wasn't doing much of anything, just wandering about aimlessly hoping I'd run into something fun. I suppose it's a bit sentimental but I was hoping to catch a glimpse of some of my friends, but they've all been kept pretty busy with cleaning up what happened last time."

"Last time?" Sherlock asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Oh, you can't have missed it! Planets in the sky, Dalek's raining down from space trying to take over Earth, ringing a bell?" He grinned.

"That was you?" Sherlock asked in disbelief, obviously struggling with the fact that he was talking to an alien.

"Yep," he said happily, "Well, not just me, a whole _bunch_ of people, all working together. They were brilliant, all of them were absolutely brilliant. They flew the TARDIS the way she was meant to be flown, they towed Earth home. Brilliant."

He smiled brightly, genuinely cheered up just by the memory, one of his best.

"Where are they now?" Sherlock asked, "Your obviously traveling alone at the moment, but why?"

"They left. They've all got there own lives to lead, it's perfectly understandable. Jack has Torchwood, Martha has her family, Mickey's probably tagging along with Martha and Jack and getting himself into trouble. Rose has her mum, her sort of dad and the other me (don't ask, it's complicated), Sarah Jane has her son. There was someone who would have stayed with me if she could, but she can't, she can't even remember me."

He paused, the smile leaving his face briefly as he thought of Donna, Donna who had risen so high, she had been _brilliant_, the most important woman in the universe. Yes, that day had been a victory, they had defeated the Daleks and saved reality itself, but it had cost him his best and truest friend. Unlike all his other companions (even Jack), Donna had never been interested in him romantically, but she had been exactly the friend he needed. She wasn't afraid to argue, to question, to make _him_ question whether what he was doing was right, she wasn't in awe of him like the others, too blinded by how wonderful he _seemed_ and how confident he _acted_ to see that he could, and did make mistakes. Sometimes he was wrong, and all too often he was too caught up in his pride to realize it. Donna had been the perfect friend, she had been there to tell him when he was wrong, to stand up to him when his pride would not allow him to back down. And he missed her, he missed her terribly.

"Anyway, it's a good thing none of them are here right now. Torchwood would use them against me, threaten their lives to try and get me to obey," He said lightly, "They know it's the only way they'll get what they want from me."

"And what do they want from you?" Sherlock asked seriously, his face grim.

"I've lived for over nine-hundred years, traveling between the stars. I could tell them so much, to much. I could give them the secrets to technology thousands of years out of their reach, technology that would change the course of history. I can't let that happen." He said, his voice hard with determination.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, not understanding, humans never did understand Time.

"Time. People think of Time like a straight line, but it's not, it's a little... confusing, humans can't understand it, they can't _see_ it. I can. I see everything that _can_ happen, everything that _must_ happen, and everything that _must not_ happen. Torchwood _must not_ learn my secrets. Best case scenario, they'll destroy themselves, probably the whole planet. Worst case, they'll destroy Time itself." He said gravely, trying to get Sherlock to understand what was at stake.

"I'm assuming that would be bad." Sherlock said wryly.

"Not just bad, _very_ bad, _very very_ bad, catastrophic, disastrous, cataclysmic, I don't think there's a word for just how _bad_ that would be. All of history, past present and future happening at once, Time frozen in a single never ending moment, never moving forwards, never going backwards, never existing at all. It would decay, the entire universe falling out of Time. It wouldn't be destroyed, it wouldn't have the _Time_ to be destroyed, it would just... cease to exist. Frozen forever just a moment before annihilation, a moment that will never happen."

"Still, that won't happen, I won't let it," He said, keeping his voice light, "So there's no need to worry!"

He stood with a smile and walked over to the bars of their cell, "Now, lets see what we have here."he said, reaching through the bars to where he judged the force field to be. A powerful jolt shot through his arm, forcing him to yank it back and leaving his fingertips slightly tinged and the entire limb tingling.

"Oh that is _beautiful_. Definitely not earth technology, I'd like to know who they stole it from," he hissed slightly in pain, sucking on his fingers as they tingled painfully, "Not exactly the most pleasant thing to stick your hand in. I'd keep away from it if I were you Sherlock, no telling what it would do to a human." He warned.

"So I suppose we're not getting out any time soon?" Sherlock surmised, slumping down on one of the mattresses and somehow managing to look incredibly bored.

"No, not really." He said with a wry chuckle.

"Damn. Ah well, the case was wrapping up anyway and there's not all that much difference between being bored here and being bored at home," Sherlock complained with a slight smirk "Although I assume that John will probably start to worry when I don't return. Still, at least he won't have to put up with me firing at the wall for a while."

He chuckled, "Well I don't think they'll let you have a gun in here, so they'll be no shooting the walls out of boredom this time around," He thought for a moment, "Not that I approve of weapons mind you, but this place _is_ awfully dull. Don't they know that it's not a good idea to lock up a genius with nothing to keep them entertained? Let alone two geniuses?" He grinned.

Sherlock smirked, his eyes gleaming darkly, "Oh, I'm sure we could come up with _some_ way to entertain ourselves."

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**a/n:**Next time: HERE COMES THE WHUMP! (begins dancing to Voodoo Child)


	8. Chapter 8

**a/n: **Sorry this is late! I have been unfaithful, and distracted by the bright and shiny light of other fandoms, (*cough* Avengers *cough*). I have also run into a little bit of a snag with chapter 10, in that I just can't decide what the mean and nasty scientists should do with our poor Doctor.

So feel free to drop me a review and leave a suggestion, in fact, that would be awesome. Let me know which flavor of whump you want and I'll do my best to provide.

Also it has been pointed out that I am having a few issues with spelling and grammar, and I am trying to improve that to make this more readable, sorry if I am making too many mistakes.

Still, here is this chapter for you, and I hope you enjoy it, because I really don't think the Doctor did (mwuhahahaha!).

No, I'm not evil, whatever gave you that impression?

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Chapter 8

"Queen takes bishop. Check." He said with a smirk, lying as comfortably as he could on the thin mattress and staring at the ceiling. The cell wasn't to bad, all things considered. He'd certainly been in worse. He could do without the boredom however, which was why he was currently playing verbal chess with Sherlock.

"Knight takes queen." Sherlock fired back quickly, having adopted a more or less identical pose, hands clasped before his face in thought.

It had been several hours since he had been hurled into his cell, six hours, thirty two minutes and seven seconds if he was going to be precise, which, of course, being a _Time_ Lord, he was. During these hours he and Sherlock had done there best to stave off the inevitable boredom, with varying levels of success. The Doctor was itching to get out of his cell and go... well, anywhere really. Sitting still for long periods of time had never been one of his strengths. He remembered the trouble it had gotten him into at the academy, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

He had always been brilliant, even by Time Lord standards, and his intelligence should have secured his position as the pride of the academy. As many of his elders had put it however, he was 'defective'. When he should have been studying he was running across the meadows, taking any and every opportunity to escape the sheer boredom that his stuffy old teachers dared to call learning. While other Time Lord children would sit silent and respectful, he would fidget through every moment of enforced stillness, aching to be free to move around once more. As he grew older and his disrespect grew into open rebellion his elders lamented the waste of such a great intellect on one such as him. He didn't care what they thought though, he just wanted to be free, to live his life the way he chose without them controlling him. He could have been anything, heck, they had even tried to make him Lord President but he had refused. He did not want that kind of life. He just wanted to have fun.

He almost wished he was back there now, having just escaped the iron eyes of his instructors and running aver the red grass alongside Koschei as fast as his little legs could carry him. He had been Theta then, young and happy, with not a care in the world except the possibility of getting caught. He sighed internally, dragging himself back to the present and putting the memories back where they belonged.

His musing was interrupted by four armed guards approaching the cell door, led by Mr. Stykes himself.

"Bishop takes knight. Check mate." He said with a grin, completely ignoring the approach of his captors and ending there game. Sherlock had been a wonderful opponent, he had even been good enough to be a challenge, but there were very few humans who could beat him in a game of chess.

The shield was lowered and the cell door opened, admitting the four guards who _really_ needed to learn the concept of personal space, as they walked right up to where he was lying and hauled him to his feet.

"Oi! Don't you know it's rude to interrupt a game of chess?" He asked indignantly, earning him a hard shove from one of the guards. He winced as he made contact with the wall, trying to remind himself that it wasn't a good idea to annoy his captors to much.

"No need to get your knickers in a knot, I'm coming," he grumbled, "Honestly, didn't your mothers teach you any manners? I've had more civil encounters with a drunken Judoon! Actually, come to think of it, he wasn't all that bad. He smelled nicer to."

The guard just glared at him angrily as he snapped on a pair of handcuffs, "I'm being rude again, aren't I?" he asked, slightly crestfallen.

"Don't mind the guards," Stykes said smoothly, "I'm sure they'll find an excuse to hate you even without your help."

"Oh good!" He said brightly, "I suppose I don't have to waste my time trying to be polite then." He shook off their arms, preferring to walk rather than be dragged like some helpless captive. Prisoner he may be, he was _far_ from helpless.

"Right then. Off we go! Allon-sy!" He exclaimed cheerfully, leaving the cell with a happy little wave in Sherlock's direction. The other man simply raised his eyebrow at his display of enthusiasm, but his pale eyes held a hint of worry. He tried to hold Sherlock's eyes with his own, to somehow let him know that everything was going to be fine, but he was forced to move.

Refusing to let them ruin his good mood, he bounced on his feet, "So! Where are we going this time?" He asked, not really expecting an answer, "Somewhere fun? If you can't think of anywhere I know a good bar in the Minmitar system. Can't say that deliberately poisoning myself is exactly my kind of fun, but most other species seem to enjoy it. You should see and Adipose when it's drunk, it's simply _adorable_. Poor little things can't hold their liquor though, they're _really_ cheap dates."

"Enough with the talking!" Stykes snapped, signaling the guards to grab him.

"Right, no talking, I can do that. Well, I can try. I was never very good at it though- Oww!" He exclaimed, rubbing the back of his head where once of the guards had cuffed him.

"_Not_ very nice," he grumbled, deciding to keep his mouth shut, at least for a little while. He managed to maintain the silence as they walked through the long, bare corridors, taking note of the cameras covering every inch and the armed guards at either end. This place had a _lot_ of security, he was almost flattered.

When they reached their destination however, he could not help himself, "Ooo, a lab! I love labs. Well.. at least, I love labs when I'm not being experimented on, and I'm gathering that this is not one of those times, but still, nice lab." He gazed around, taking in the instruments that lined the walls. Most of them were harmless enough, even if they were salvaged alien technology. Their main purpose seemed to be for monitoring vital signs without the need for wires or electrodes. That wasn't to ominous. The large tank of water in the middle of the room however, that was just a tad ominous.

The scientist from earlier was there, with several of her white coated pals. They didn't even attempt to make eye contact with him, eying him much like they would a beaker or a test tube. It grated on his nerves more than a little, but merely grit his teeth and kept smiling.

"Right, so what's the plan for today?" He asked, "I'm assuming it has something to do with that large tank of water there, are we going for a swim?"

"Shut up," the blonde scientist snapped, "You're here to be studied, not to chat."

She turned back to the other scientists, "His vital signs are holding steady at the same levels as last night, so I'm going to assume that's reasonably close to normal levels for his species. Right then, shall we begin?" She asked briskly, to a round of nodding.

"Get in the tank." She ordered.

"Why?" He asked curiously, "What's the point of this experiment?"

"You don't need to know," she snapped, "You just need to do as I tell you."

"Or what?" He asked boldly.

She nodded to the guards that flanked him, and there response was swift and brutal. A fist was driven into his abdomen, and he cried out and instinctively tried to curl himself around the blow to lessen the hurt. If it hadn't been for the second guard holding him up, he may have fallen.

He struggled to regain his breath, the blow had winded him. He hadn't been expecting such a reaction, even though he probably should have been. Mr. Stykes had made it more than clear that his treatment here was going to be unpleasant. The man was watching the exchange with a little gleam in his eyes, obviously enjoying the sight.

At last he regained his composure somewhat, although he was no longer smiling. "Well, I suppose that answers that question," he said dryly, "Am I going to be uncuffed so I can keep myself afloat or are you planning on drowning me?"

"Perhaps another day," The scientist said, perfectly serious, "Uncuff him and put him in the tank."

The guards rushed to comply, and he was frogmarched up the ramp leading to the lip of the tank and tossed into the water. The ramp was wheeled away and he was left treading water. It wasn't exactly unpleasant, the water was actually quite comfortable, not to hot and not to cold. It was salty though, very salty. If he had to guess he'd say it was about a twenty percent solution. He pursed his lips, slightly concerned, he _really_ hoped he was wrong about what they were planning.

"So, now what?" He asked, bobbing slightly as he kept afloat.

The scientist ignored him, intent on studying there instruments, and he sighed in annoyance. He wasn't exactly a stranger to imprisonment, but being treated as if he wasn't even sentient? That was a new one. At least The Master had talked to him, even if it was only to gloat or threaten.

As he floated he noticed that the water felt cooler, which was strange. It should have felt _warmer_ the longer he was in it, as his body adjusted, not colder. Which meant that someone must be lowering the temperature.

Ah. Sometimes he hated being right.

Studying how he reacted to cold temperatures obviously, maybe even trying to induce hypothermia. This was going to be... unpleasant. He could withstand the cold far better than any human, that didn't mean it wasn't painful.

The temperature was beginning to drop more dramatically, and his body was trying to compensate.

"Look! His skin temperature has dropped to sixteen degrees, same as his core temperature. He must be able to regulate it." One of the scientists exclaimed excitedly, taking down notes.

He snorted derisively, if they were trying to figure out his physiology they could have just asked him. He wouldn't have answered of course, well, he might have if they'd asked nicely, but they were Torchwood London, asking nicely wasn't something they did. He could tell them far more than there little tests ever would.

As the water got colder and colder his skin felt like it was freezing, it felt like he had pins and needles over his whole body, almost like he was burning. It felt cold enough so that ice crystals should have started to form already. Ah, right, the salt. The water wouldn't freeze until it was around _minus_ twenty degrees Celsius.

_Not_ good.

At these temperatures a normal human would certainly get hypothermia. He wouldn't, at least,he didn't think he would, but after a while his limbs would get tired and he'd be unable to keep himself afloat. Hopefully they'd fish him out when that happened.

There wasn't anything he could do to escape the tank, and, even if he could, they'd just throw him back in. All he could do was tread water and hope the test would be over soon.

The temperature continued to drop, the cold knifed through him. It was painful, but not dangerous, his body was _very_ good at compensating for the drop in temperature, due to his 'supercharged' metabolism.

The human body was, in reality, quite wasteful. About eighty percent of the energy obtained from food was wasted as heat. Time Lords were much more efficient, one of the reasons why he needed much less sleep and food than his companions. His enzymes were designed to work at a lower temperature, he didn't need to keep warm the way a human did. Of course, when his body temperature was lowered _this_ dramatically, he needed to keep warm, or, at least, warm for _him_.

His body kicked into overdrive, stored energy was released as heat, keeping his core stable at sixteen degrees. He couldn't keep this up for long though, this body had never had much in the way of fat reserves, and, he hated to admit it, but Sherlock had been right. He hadn't been taking care of himself lately; he hadn't been eating enough, or sleeping, and it starting to show. It wouldn't normally be a problem, even depleted as he was he had days, even weeks before it began to slow him down. Or at least, it would have been weeks if someone hadn't decided to dump him into a tank of subzero water. He was expending a _lot_ of energy keeping himself warm.

...

It had now been twenty one minutes and thirty seven seconds since he'd been thrown into the tank, nine minutes and four seconds since the temperature had hit minus twenty degrees Celsius and stayed there. Ice crystals had begun to form on the surface of the water, and, by the feel of it, on his face and hair. He had started to shudder six minutes and fifteen seconds ago, and, as of now, his limbs were beginning to grow sluggish.

He honestly didn't know how much longer he could keep himself afloat before he grew too tired. Having never been tossed into a tank of freezing cold water before it was something new. For once he would have preferred to forgo the new experience; he would much rather be warm.

Thirteen minutes and fifty six seconds later and his limbs were like lead. Seventeen minutes exactly after that the thought first crossed his mind that it would be easier just to stop trying, surely they'd fish him out. Five minutes and thirty three seconds passed and he was seriously considering it.

Then he remembered; he had promised himself that he wouldn't let them break him. He grit his teeth, trying to ignore the way his entire body trembled, the sound of his teeth chattering. He pulled out all the stops, every little trick, every quirk of his physiology that he could think of to keep himself afloat.

Thirty two minutes and forty eight seconds passed before he began to wonder whether they were trying to kill him.

It hurt, it really did. He was surprised how much a little cold water could hurt, every limb felt like lead, every inch of his skin felt like it was on fire. A thousand tiny little knives drove into him, into every cell until all he knew was the bone deep cold. It felt like he would never be warm again. His hearts, which had been beating quickly to start with, were now beating quite sluggishly, only eight beats per minute.

He had stopped shivering, his body now doing the best it could to preserve what little energy he had left. His mind was sluggish, the passing of time was beginning to slip through his frozen fingers. Had it been six minutes and twenty seconds? Or had it been twenty minutes and six seconds? Perhaps it had not even been six seconds. Why was he wet? Why was he so cold?

He tried to keep awake, tried to keep moving his muscles but his limbs were as sluggish as his mind. At last he was reduced to flailing weakly,struggling pathetically to keep himself afloat. With almost a grateful sigh he slid under the surface of the water, blinking slowly and gazing through the glass walls of the tank with confusion.

There were people, people outside the tank? Maybe they could help him. He opened his mouth to cry out but nothing but bubbles came out. Water rushed in, he panicked, tried to escape it, slamming himself against the tank walls, but there was no escape. He couldn't think, he couldn't control himself, he knew he should be doing something, something that would save his life, but what? Something about breathing... respiri... respiratory bypass! That was it!

But it was to late, he tried, he really did, but he couldn't get it to kick in. What was the point anyway? He was so tired. His eyes slid shut and he stopped struggling, slowly sinking towards the bottom of the tank.


	9. Chapter 9

**a/n:** Thank you everyone for your reviews and suggestions.

Is it strange that I already had some of them planned? I even wrote one of them before I asked (you'll find out which one in the next chapter :D) but I wasn't sure if it was what everyone wanted. Well, my concerns have well and truly been laid to rest and so I should be able to write the next few chapters a little faster now.

**a/n 2: A note on Time**

You may have noticed that I refer to Time in two ways. The lowercase, time, refers to the common usage of the word, for example "this time". The uppercase, Time, refers to Time as a concept, or a constant, or something of that nature, for example "I can see Time" or "I can travel through Time". Just thought I should clarify so people don't think I'm capitalizing unnecessarily.

Anyway, what are you reading this for? Enjoy the chapter!

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Chapter 9

He was lying on his back, sprawled in the red summer grass and staring up at a burnt orange sky. Impossibly white clouds scooted across, chased by the playful wind that whistled through the grass and set the silver trees to waving. The smells of summer wafted through the air. He was warm, and he was safe. He was _home_.

But if it was summer, how come he was so cold? If he was safe, how come his chest was aching, how come someone was touching him? If he was home, why was he lying on a hard tiled floor instead of soft crimson grass?

With a jolt he sat upright, his hearts beating wildly, panicked and confused. Where was he? He sucked in deep, shuddering breaths, as he became aware he was soaking wet, and absolutely freezing. His body was shaking all over, and he felt as weak as a half drowned kitten.

Ah, that would probably be because he had nearly drowned.

He looked around, trying to figure out what had happened, obviously they had hauled him out of the water after he lost consciousness. He was now wrapped in several layers of blankets,warming pads had been placed on his chest, armpits and groin, an IV pumping a warmed solution through his veins trying to raise his temperature. His mind was still sluggish, he was drifting in and out of consciousness, trying to fight the pull of sleep.

The scientists were all gathered around him, going over there findings in hushed, almost reverent tones. He tried to focus,but he could only catch little flashes of conversation.

"... survived for one-hundred and thirty eight minutes!"

"Core temperature reached three degrees centigrade..."

"...should be dead. Any human would be dead."

"...brain activity seems to be fine, no signs of permanent damage..."

"...remarkable specimen, if only we had another one."

"I wonder what they'll let us do next time, maybe we can..."

Eventually he stopped trying to resist the siren call of sleep, allowing himself to be wrapped up in her warm embrace.

...

Daleks, Daleks on Earth, all around Earth, invading conquering. All his companions around him, Donna, Martha, Jack, Sarah Jane, Mickey... Rose. His Rose, so beautiful, so strong. She had saved him, such a long time ago, yet such a _short_ time ago, she really had.

And then... he lost them all. _All_ of them, within a couple of minutes. Some of them left, they all had responsibilities, duties. They all had someone else. He left her, on the beach with someone who was him and yet not him.

That man, that other man who could love her and hold her,who could give her everything he couldn't. That man who needed her, as much as _he_ had needed her. As much as he still needed her. Because he did need her, he would always need her, but he wouldn't, he _couldn't_ put her in danger, not again. Davros was right, he made people into _weapons_.

And Donna, poor Donna, she had been _brilliant_, the best of them all, and she couldn't remember.

Davros, that terrible accusation, so terrible because it was true. How could he claim to be better than Davros when he drove his friends, his companions to such extremes. He twisted and turned, writhing with guilt but he could never escape it.

Guilt, always the guilt. Burning, everything burning, his home, his friends, his family, his very _soul_, all burning, because of _him_. His fault, his fault, always his fault.

But it was more than guilt that made him thrash in his sleep, guilt was nothing new, guilt was the burden he had carried for far to long, since being reborn a broken man, so lost after the war.

It was terror. Sheer terror. Because his song was ending. "He" would knock four times and his song would end. That's what scared him, what scared him so much he couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't think. Fear and pain and anger because why did he have to die? It was so _unfair_!

Running, always running, because what else could he do? Running through his own mind, through his dreams, but wherever he ran it followed him, the noise, the sound, four knocks, his doom, his _death_ chasing him.

_Knock knock knock knock!_

"No!"

* * *

"No!" He sat up with a scream, panting heavily, only to find himself trapped. He thrashed violently, trying to escape.

"It's alright. They're just blankets, to keep you warm." A smooth voice was saying. Obviously the speaker was trying to be reassuring, but it didn't seem to suit him very much.

With an effort he calmed himself down, remembering where he was. In a cell, held prisoner by Torchwood London, with a high functioning sociopath/genius detective as his cell mate.

He sighed and untangled himself from the blankets, noting that he still felt quite cold, freezing actually. His entire body ached, he felt more exhausted than he had in a long time.

"Right... sorry about that," he said sheepishly, "How long was I gone?" He asked, hoping the other man wouldn't ask about the scream, the last thing he wanted to discuss was his nightmares. He doubted he was fooling the brilliant detective though.

"You were gone for about five hours, you've been asleep for about three. When they brought you in they said you were suffering from hypothermia, covered you with blankets and left. You seemed to be on the mend, so I decided to let you sleep it off. I'm going to assume that the hypothermia was somehow induced?"

He chuckled weakly, "You could say that. They threw me into a tank of water saturated with salt and lowered the temperature as far as it would go without freezing solid. Let me tell you, sub-zero water is not a nice place to be."

"Why?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"To see what would happen? They seemed reasonably pleased with the results."

"Why though, why do any of this?"

"Because they honestly believe that studying me will be the key to medical breakthroughs. And it probably would, but the fact remains that humans _can't_ have that knowledge, not yet at any rate. You're species isn't ready, you'd blunder into something you knew nothing about and destroy yourselves."

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment, lost in thought. "Are you okay?" he asked suddenly.

He looked at the detective like he'd lost his mind, "Of course I'm ok, I'm still breathing aren't I? Don't worry, Time Lord biology is far superior to human, I'll bounce back in no time."

Sherlock sighed with frustration, "That's not what I meant. I meant... well, it can't have been a particularly nice experience to be thrown into a tank and frozen. Anyone would be feeling a bit... vulnerable. Are you alright? And don't just tell me your fine, because you _always_ say your fine."

He sighed, "Sherlock, I'm hardly going to go to pieces over being a little cold. I've had worse. _Trust me_," he grumbled, "I'm _fine_."

"_Lie_," Sherlock stated, "People who are fine don't usually scream in their sleep."

"Look," he snapped, a little annoyed at the other man, "That had nothing to do with today. It was just a bad dream. Everyone has bad dreams sometimes, mine just tend to be a little worse. Yours would to if you'd lived for nine-hundred years. Please just drop it."

"_Fine_," Sherlock said tersely, "We'll have to talk about something though, or I'll get bored."

"How about a story then?" he asked, suddenly cheering up a bit, some _good_ memories would be nice right about now, "I could tell you about the time I met Agatha Christie; or when I was getting chased through a the motorway on New Earth by a cat dressed as a nun, she was a nice cat though, not like the other cat-nuns; Or the time I took Jack out drinking and he tried to proposition a statue after two hypervodkas, I don't think I'd ever heard a Judoon laugh before until then."

"Judoon?" Sherlock asked, his voice curious, "What's a Judoon?"

"Interplanetary police, they look like bipedal rhinos. There the strong arm of the Shadow Proclamation, more thugs than anything else, they're to stupid for any sort of investigation, so they usually just do the legwork. Unless there's a mix up and they end up being sent to Earth looking for a plasmavore, then they just do something really thick and nearly get an entire hospital full of people asphyxiated. Still, they're not bad guys, just stupid. I speak the language actually, not that it's much of a language, all that 'TO MO HO GO FRO DO!' nonsense."

Sherlock just raised his eyebrow, which of course he took as permission to launch into a only slightly embellished tale of the time he had been captured and forced into an arena to fight a lion in ancient Rome and had instead persuaded it to run around the stadium doing tricks while he stood on one hand and juggled with the other, before launching into another, equally ridiculous tale.

* * *

"...and then the Sontaran general, Khaall the Unmerciful I think his name was, walked into the war room wearing a frilly pink _tutu_. Apparently one of his underlings had told him it was some sort of human ceremonial garb that he could use to inspire fear and awe in his future subjects. Needless to say it was _really_ hard to keep a straight face when he was threatening me, because, well, pink! Bright pink!"

He tried to keep a straight face and continue the story, but, unfortunately, failed dismally. Of course, he had done much the same then, which had confused the Sontarans no end. Most people didn't laugh when they were about to be executed, but, then again, he wasn't most people.

He had spent the last few hours telling stories. Sherlock still seemed rather bored, but neither of them felt like another game of chess and there wasn't much else to do while locked up in a cell. So instead he had wrapped himself up in several blankets (much to his annoyance he was still quite cold, _and_ weak, not that he'd tell anyone) and told as many stories as he could think of. It was a decent enough distraction to keep his mind off the lingering terror of the nightmare.

He knew that Torchwood would certainly have some sort of listening device in the cell, and were no doubt listening to every word he said, hoping he said something useful. He really hoped they were enjoying his stories. He was being careful not to say anything useful, the last thing he wanted was for some poor alien sods to be attacked by a bunch of paranoid humans, like the Sycorax. The Sycorax hadn't exactly been innocent, but they hadn't needed to die.

"Well, of course I had to stop the planned invasion," he continued, "But I sort of wish I could have seen Khaall trying to threaten the leaders of the world while wearing a tutu. Definitely would have made history a little more... ridiculous."

He sighed, trying to think of another story he could tell, before Sherlock interrupted him.

"Not that I don't find your stories amusing, but could we try and find something to _do_? My mind is rotting, I _need_ a case or I'll go insane." He ground out, clearly bored out of his mind.

"Didn't you just have a case? You know, the one that landed you in here?" He teased lightly.

"Boring. Already solved that one. You told me the answers," he accused, "Took away all the fun."

"I could have lied," he said, "Would that have made it more fun?"

"No," Sherlock smirked smugly , "I can tell when someone is lying to me, so it wouldn't have been any use."

"Oh really?" he asked with a small smirk of his own, "I admit that I'm not a very good liar this time around, but with nine-hundred years experience I'm pretty sure I could fool you if I wanted to."

"Why do you say that?" Sherlock asked curiously, "_This_ time around. It's like you've been other people before, you didn't just look different you _were_ different? How?"

"Regeneration." He said, happy to answer Sherlock's question even though Torchwood was listening. They knew about it anyway.

"It's a little trick my species has, _had_, a way of 'cheating' death. When our bodies got to old, or we were fatally injured, every cell in our body healed, but, at the same time, they changed. I've done it a few times now. The only thing that remains the same is the memories, some of my beliefs, some part of who I am, who I've _always_ been. Even my personality changes. It's still death, in a way," He said quietly, almost sadly, "_I_ die, but there's someone new in my place, a new Doctor."

"So you're immortal?" Sherlock asked incredulously, "You can't die?"

"No, I can still die. If I'm killed to quickly, I die. Lets see, how can I explain it?" He thought for a moment, "Ok. Say I'm shot or stabbed through one heart, or poisoned, or exposed to lethal amounts of radiation. Something that will kill me, but not instantly. The massive amount of trauma will trigger the regeneration process, every cell in my body will be swapped out and I'll walk away a new man, or woman, maybe I'll even be ginger. Always wanted to be a ginger. But say I'm blown up, or both my hearts are destroyed, or my body is gone, something that will kill me too quickly. I won't regenerate, I'll die. There's other ways to kill a Time Lord of course, certain types of poison, certain types of weapon, some of those things were even designed just to kill Time Lords."

He paused for a second, "Come to think of it, if they hadn't pulled me out of that tank I _would_ have died. You can't regenerate while drowning, well, you _can_, but it wouldn't work, well, probably wouldn't work. Some Time Lords might have been able to do it, but, to be honest, I was never particularly good at regeneration. Some people could control it, they could keep there personalities, even decide how they wanted to look, but I never could. Probably because every time I regenerated it was either forced on me or after being fatally injured. Still, even if I could have regenerated, I'd just drown all over again and use up the rest of my regenerations."

"So there's a finite amount? You won't just keep changing forever?" Sherlock asked, his pale eyes dancing with the new information.

"No," he said quickly, "No, I can't. A Time Lord can regenerate twelve times, we have thirteen lives to lead, then we die, like everyone else. I've got a few left, but... well, the way I'm burning through them lately I don't know if I'll make a thousand. Hell, nine hundred and fifty is starting to seem like a bit of a stretch. It's a shame really, I like myself this time around."

He sighed, "Still, everybody dies sometime, it's only right that one day it will be my turn," he pulled a face at himself, "Oh dear, this conversation _really_ took a turn for the morbid, didn't it? I guess that's what happens when you talk about regeneration. Next thing you know I'll be listing how all my previous incarnations _died_, and then we'll have no fun at all!" He smiled suddenly, trying to snap himself out of his dark mood and back to his usual, cheerful self.

"That does sound like a particularly morose subject," Sherlock conceded, "I have to admit I'm curious, but maybe you can tell me some other time."

"Maybe I will," he said, grinning like a loon, "Maybe I'll turn into a song! Or something equally fun and time consuming. Like a rhyming couplet! Or a Sonnet! Or perhaps a limerick. Well, maybe not a limerick, limericks are silly. Although sometimes it's good to be a bit silly..."

Any further statements regarding the merits of being silly were interrupted by the sound of footsteps. He could _really_ grow to hate that sound.

He closed his eyes briefly, sighing in annoyance, not even bothering to turn and see who was coming. He could tell anyway, just by listening. Four sets of heavy footsteps, clad in combat boots, and one pair in high heels, clopping along briskly.

The force field was dropped, the door opened, and three people moved swiftly into the cell. He cracked an eye open lazily, confirming his suspicion. It was the blonde scientist, such a _lovely_ person, all cool haughtiness and icy gaze.

"Hullo," he drawled casually, "What brings _you_ into my humble little home? Didn't really expect you to come all this way yourself? Couldn't you have just sent a grunt to collect me?"

"No offense." He added as the four guards glared at him. The scientist didn't answer him, not that he had really expected her to, just snapped her fingers at the two guards.

They complied with her wishes, bending down to haul him off the thin mattress and drag him out of his cell.

"Aww, can't I go back to my cell? I like it in there, no one tries to _drown_ me." He stuck his tongue out at the scientist, and she blinked in shock. Clearly she had been expecting something more... mature, like a glare. Ha! He was over nine hundred years old, if anyone was allowed to be immature, it was him!

Unfortunately poking his tongue out didn't really convince anyone to let him stay in his cell, and the guards gave him a shove.

"Walk." One of them said tersely.

"Alright, alright, don't get your knickers in a knot!" He grumbled, taking a few steps forward. Unfortunately his legs were shaking, he was still exhausted, and he stumbled into the wall before he could get himself under control.

He winced at the contact, struggling to steady himself before the guards decided to just drag him. Prisoner he may be, but he wasn't about to let them haul him around like some wild beast.

"I can walk," he ground out through clenched teeth, "Just give me a _moment_." The guards rolled there eyes and stood back, letting him get his legs back under him. He squared his shoulders with determination, fixing his usual smile back on his face, although it was starting to look more than a little forced.

"Right then! Places to go, people to see, let's not keep them waiting!" He beamed, walking away as quickly as he could, forcing them to keep up with him. It was petty, useless, and would burn more energy than he could afford to lose, but it gave him a small surge of triumph nonetheless.

* * *

**a/n:** Next chapter might take a little while longer, but I will try to have it posted around Friday.


	10. Chapter 10

**a/n:** Sorry this is so late and short, I haven't had much time to work on this for the last two weeks. I've been placed in a team for the 'wholock party extravaganza' on Tumblr, so I've been kept pretty busy with that, and I have a ton of assignments due, there easy but time consuming.

So you might not get another update until the 25th after all my assessments get handed in, sorry about that, I guess I shouldn't have left them till there was only a week left to do them.

Enough of the real life stuff.

Thank you all so much for your reviews!

I know that I'm letting a few grammar mistake through, mainly mixing up my "your"s with my "You're"s and my "to"s with my "too"s and so on. I apologies for the mistakes, I usually write in a somewhat frenzied storm, just getting my ideas down on the page as fast as I can, and spell check it afterwards. Unfortunately my spell check doesn't pick up on grammar issues like Microsoft word does, so they slip through. I'll try to be a little more careful.

Enjoy the chapter!

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chapter 10

He walked briskly, or at least, _sort_ of briskly down the hall, trying not to think about what sort of _experiments_ the scientist had planned for him today. Unfortunately his overactive imagination refused to listen to him, gleefully supplying him with a list of all sorts of horrific tests the scientists might concoct. His only advantage lay in the fact that the seemed to want him _alive_, if only so that they could study him while he regenerated. Other species had tried it, thinking that by unlocking the secrets of regeneration they could somehow re-engineer the process for their own species. It was fruitless however, the only way Time Lords could do it was from millennia of exposure to the Time Vortex.

With the Time Lords gone there was only one way to reliably use the Time Vortex, and that was to use _his_ TARDIS. He would never let her be used in such a way. It still pained him somewhat to know that the days of Time travelers traveling the stars were coming to a close. After he was gone, there would be none left he could see the wonder and majesty of Time, none left who could even hope to understand it, not fully. Oh, there were civilizations that _tried_, inspired by the Time Lords, but their methods were clumsy at the best of times, catastrophic at the worst.

He tore his mind away from that line of thought, determined not to allow himself to turn morbid again. It was getting harder to fight these dark thoughts, they swirled around in his head, tormenting him constantly. They sat in his hearts, heavy and weary. When had it all gone wrong, when had the manic cheerfulness that defined him become little more than a mask? It had been genuine, one upon a time. Such a short time ago, mere years in the span of centuries, yet it felt like a lifetime ago. In many ways, it _was_ a lifetime ago.

He chuckled silently to himself, the laughter in his head sounding somewhat bitter; maybe he'd regenerated without noticing into _this_ morbid man. He dismissed the thought: he thinks he would have noticed the new teeth, and he would have been truly unhappy to see this hair go, because it was _magnificent_ hair.

* * *

He raised an eyebrow when he saw the 'lab' that he had been escorted to this time. It looked like nothing more than a particularly small, if high tech gym, there was a treadmill to one side, surrounded by all sorts of monitoring equipment. It didn't take a genius to see what they wanted him to do, but he was wondering how they intended to _make _him do it.

He loved running, but he was usually running _from_ something, or _to_ something, not just running for the amusement of a bunch of human scientists. Speaking of said scientists, one of them stepped forwards. It was not the blonde woman, she seemed content to merely observe this time, this scientist was a man, about in his mid forties and going bald in an unfortunately obvious way.

In his hands he held an oxygen mask that had obviously been augmented with some sort of alien tech, just by looking at it he could see that it was intended to provide readouts of his oxygen usage. He had to give the a _little_ credit, at least they seemed to be doing these experiments properly. He tried to tell himself that it was a shame he had to take their data when he left, but that was a lie. He would infect there computers with a virus to remove all trace of his existence, all this hard earned data, and he would _enjoy_ it.

"Put this on please." The scientist, said with the same aloof tone that every single member of Torchwood London seemed to share.

"And if I don't?" He asked mildly, raising his eyebrow once again.

The scientist sighed and reached for a device, some form of modified cattle prod from the looks of it. Ah. That didn't bode particularly well for him.

"Okay," he held up his hands in mock surrender, "I get it. I don't do what you tell me , you poke me with the stick of doom. I'd really rather we skipped that bit, sooo..."

He took the mask, strapping it onto his face, "Ta-daa!" he grinned, throwing his arms out and bowing a little. None of the scientists or guards seemed impressed by his antics, but that wasn't all that unusual.

"Get on the treadmill and start running." The scientist ordered, still holding the cattle prod.

He rolled his eyes slightly at the heavy handedness of it all, but he kept his mouth closed for a change. He didn't put it past them to shock him just because he was being annoying, and while he could certainly handle higher levels of electricity than a human, it didn't mean it was any less painful.

With a barely audible sigh, he walked to the treadmill and started to jog, wincing slightly as his muscles, still cramped from the cold, protested the movement. He hadn't fully recovered from nearly drowning, _or_ the hypothermia, and he really didn't think it was a good idea to be pushing himself right now. He didn't bother bringing this to the scientist's attention, he very much doubted they'd care.

Suddenly he felt a sharp, stabbing sensation in his shoulder, followed almost instantly by every single muscle seizing up with pain. He couldn't help the shout of surprise and pain that clawed it's way out of his throat. The searing pain left as soon as it had come, leaving him shaking and gasping for air.

"What was that for?" He asked sharply, his voice a little rough from the shout, "I'm doing what you asked!"

"This isn't an afternoon stroll," the balding scientist said scathingly, "I want you to _run_. If I think you're not running fast enough, I will shock you. If I think you're slowing down, I will shock you. If I think you're holding out on me, I will shock you. Am I making myself clear?" He asked, cattle prod held ready.

"Crystal." He replied, his voice terse and laced with real anger. He was beginning to grow weary of his confinement, and, were it not for the fact that they would most certainly choose to punish him by hurting his cell mate, he would take that damned cattle prod and snap it in half.

That wasn't an option though, so he focused on running as fast as he could, or, at least as fast as he could right now. He was nowhere near peak condition, all he'd eaten in the last couple of weeks was those sandwiches that the scientists had seen fit to feed him earlier, and despite the several hours of sleep he had gotten earlier he was still disgustingly tired. The aftereffects of hypothermia weren't helping the situation either.

Still, he had no choice. Well, that was a lie, he _always_ had a choice, but right now doing what the scientists asked seemed like the best one. For now.

His entire body strained, his muscles coiling and stretching, his hearts beating incredibly fast, his breaths steady and strong, a pleasant buzz of adrenalin coursing through his veins. It would actually be somewhat enjoyable, if it weren't for the lingering tightness in his muscles from being so cold, and the scientist standing beside him with the 'stick of doom'.

If he was going to get prodded with that thing, he might as well call it something other than a 'cattle prod', and 'stick of doom' just sounded better. He let his mind wander without direction as he focused entirely on running.

He was sprinting flat out, as fast as he could possibly go. A normal human would have stopped running by now, unable to keep that pace up for more than a few minutes at most, but he wasn't human. He knew he could keep going for a long time, he'd had plenty of experience running.

His thoughts twisted and turned, meandering aimlessly through his mind as he ran, and he paid them no heed. He just ran. And ran. And ran some more. Never stopping, never slowing down, just pushing himself as fast as he could possibly go.

The scientist didn't realize this apparently, and the sudden jolt of electricity across his entire body made him stumble dangerously, nearly falling off the treadmill.

The pain abated, and he bit back a growl of frustration, "I am running as fast as I can run!" he snapped, panting heavily, "I can _not_ go faster, no matter how many times you poke me!" he glared at the scientist furiously.

"I know," the scientist said with a smug grin, "That was just to keep you on your toes."

He didn't choose to dignify that with a response, turning back to his running and steadfastly ignoring the scientist.

* * *

Minutes streamed by quickly with nothing but the constant running, only interrupted whenever the scientist decided to shock him once more. Minutes turned into an hour as time kept flowing, oh so quickly yet oh so slowly.

He had been sprinting for far longer than any human could even hope to achieve, he was covered in sweat and his vision was beginning to blur a little. His breaths had turned into gasps, his lungs burned in his chest, his hearts beat valiantly,but were unable to keep up. He was completely exhausted.

But still he ran.

He had to run, he wasn't even sure why, things like reasons and questions had started to slip away with his sense of time, his mind moving sluggishly. He didn't even look at the scientist anymore, not even when he was shocked, just regained control of his muscles and kept running.

He was good at running, but he couldn't run forever. No one could run forever.

He couldn't stop though, if he did he would be shocked, would be punished. It wasn't even that he feared the punishment, he'd certainly had worse, it was just easier to keep running. There was no harm in running, no real reason to resist.

Some corner of his mind was appalled at the thought of giving the scientists what they wanted, it screamed at him to fight back, to protest, to do anything and everything in his power to keep them from getting what they wanted.

He was tired though, so, so tired.

So he just ran.

Ran until every breath burned, until his hearts fluttered like a frightened rabbit's, until his vision began to gray out, and, at last, he collapsed off the treadmill in a boneless heap.

He was vaguely aware of the scientists and guards converging on him, he felt the shock that ran through his body, and he tried to stand, tried to force his body to co-operate, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. He was shocked again, and again, and again, each shock burning, searing, _tearing_ through him, but he could do nothing to stop it. So he just lay there unable to move, unable to even speak a word of protest, and to tired to even care. At last his eyes slid closed, and with a grateful sigh he passed out.


	11. Chapter 11

**a/n: **Ok, first things first, I am soooo sorry that this is so late.

I had the wholock extravaganza, which was so much fun but kept me really busy, then I had five days to do ten assignments (not fun), after that there were doctors trips, new medication to get used to that made me doze off to sleep in the middle of the day a few times at first, then my laptop went all screwy and I had to get it repaired, turns out their was a huge clump of cat hair in the exhaust fan.

So my laptop is finally back, and with it all those important little things like the chapters of this story, my word processing programs and my mood music. I wrote about half of the eleventh chapter, but then I got a brainwave and had to put in another chapter in it's place. So the good news is that the twelfth chapter is already half finished.

So, long story short, this is really late, but there were reasons.

Again, a huge thank you to:

TheMysteriousComicGeek, thedoctorandriver, XXForestStarXX, Aoi Dragon, Karyn Phantom, Aria, Oh-My-Dead-Wizard-Gawd, Lena Sinoijet Yao-Braginski, EmoGeekGirl, Random, , lemon, menairchu, DoctorWhoFan, Saphura, TheHomerow, zebu-in-a-fez, ChelGallifreya221B613, Ali, I'mjustheretoread, Starrxx, 2die, Iatheia, FezWearingBanana, Hortensia, Nataly SkyPot, shinalisz, Skiwriter, mickeythebluemagic, Thalianaa, 2die, Sehkmet, skabs, pearlgirl97 and several guests for your reviews.

Anyway, enough reading the authors note, if you've stuck with me this far, pat yourself on the back and go back to reading the story!

In this chapter The Doctor attempts to give Torchwood some advice on interplanetary relations, and, needless to say, things continue to go badly for him.

* * *

He groaned quietly, forcing his eyes to open groggily and trying to clear his swimming head. His whole body felt like he'd somehow been run over by a steamroller, or perhaps gone twelve rounds with a nine-hundred pound gorilla, or used as a football by a squad of Judoon, or maybe even mouthed off to a particularly irate cactus.

Memory started to return to his momentarily fuzzy head, and, upon realising why he felt like a poorly reanimated zombie he kind of wished he _had_ annoyed a cactus. At least that would have been an interesting story to tell, rather than 'a bunch of scientists held me at taser-point and made me run all day'. Next time he felt like telling someone about his exploits, he would definitely be leaving this part out.

Reining in his unruly thoughts, he came to the conclusion that he _really_ needed something to drink. He cracked his eyes open blearily, looking around the cell. Sherlock was lying on his back, hands folded and staring at the ceiling, seemingly lost in thought.

"Here," Sherlock said, rolling a bottle of water across the cell floor without taking his eyes of the ceiling, "The guards left some bottles of water when they brought you in. You look like hell."

He unscrewed the bottle and drank slowly, taking small sips so he wouldn't make himself sick, "Thanks," he said gratefully, his voice still hoarse, "I was beginning to think they didn't care." He smirked tiredly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "I'd rest while you can. Judging from the previous few days you have an hour or two before they drag you off for another 'test'."

"How long was I asleep" He asked incredulously.

"About twelve hours," Sherlock drawled, "I thought about waking you, but you were pretty out of it, I thought it was best to just let you sleep."

"That can't be right, _twelve_ hours? I haven't slept that long since the last time I regenerated. Well, at least I'm not leaking regenerative energy and having to sword fight a Sycorax after losing and regrowing a hand this time."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "You regrew a hand?"

"Yeah, it's a pity I can't always do that all the time, it would certainly be useful." He said, imagining what he could do with that ability.

"So what happened to the hand? The first hand, the one you lost?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"The Sycorax cut it off while we were having a duel with swords in the spaceship made from an asteroid that was hovering over London. It fell off the ship and landed in London, and was picked up by the leader of Torchwood Cardiff, who was one of my companions until we got separated on a space station above earth in the year 200, 100 that was overrun by Daleks. He was killed by the Daleks but my other companion, Rose, absorbed all the power of the time vortex and brought him back to life. She made a bit of a mistake though, and now he can't die. Well... he can't die for a very, very long time anyway. He kept it for a while, until it was stolen by another renegade Time Lord who had been hiding at the end of the universe in human form."

"He used it in the-year-that-never-was to program his laser screwdriver to age me one hundred years, and then later he completely suspended my ability to regenerate so I actually looked like I was nine hundred years old. It wasn't pretty. After that it just sat in the Tardis for a few years until the Daleks decided to cause trouble again and stole the earth."

"I got shot by a Dalek and was starting to regenerate when I managed to divert the excess regenerative energy into the hand. I healed myself up, but I didn't change. Later, the container the hand was in got knocked over, and, since it was a part of me chock full of very fresh regenerative energy it grew into a half human duplicate. I left the duplicate with Rose in a parallel universe, before sealing up the cracks between our universes, so they can't be opened again. So my hand is now walking and talking and hopefully living a good, normal life with Rose." He explained, barely pausing for breath.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly at the unbelievable tale, before they narrowed a little, "So, you and Rose..."

"There was something there, more than something, but we never really got a chance. I lost her, she fell into the other universe. She came back, but... I left her back in the other universe. Her family was there, the human-Doctor was there, and he could give her what I couldn't. It was better that way, I'm not exactly safe to be around. All my companions leave, in the end."

He looked down, before forcing himself to smile, "Plus, she's a human, I'm a Time Lord. The age gap was a little astounding," he tried to laugh, but it came out a little weak.

"What about your other companions?" Sherlock asked a little awkwardly, trying to change the subject. Apparently he wasn't comfortable discussing lost love, or whatever it was that he and Rose had.

He smiled, and began telling stories of his travels with Martha, Jack, Rose, and Donna. He never mentioned Donna's name though, and only described her as a feisty redhead and 'the best temp in Chiswick'. The last thing he wanted was for Donna to be taken in by Torchwood. That could make her remember, it could kill her.

Still, there were plenty of stories to tell, several lifetimes worth. Sometimes it felt like his life was just one huge story.

* * *

He was on his feet as soon as he heard the footsteps approaching, shoulders squared and face firmly schooled to indifference. His eyes widened a little when he realized that Benjamin Stykes himself had come to escort him this time.

"Hullo Benny," he said cheerfully, "Long time, no see."

Stykes frowned a little, and expressed his disapproval by nodding at one of the guards. The butt of a rifle was slammed into his side, _hard_, knocking the breath out of his lungs.

"Oi!" he gasped, trying to regain his breath, "I was just trying to be _friendly_. You guys _really_ need to talk to a human resources advisor, maybe get some anger management classes? I mean, I've come across aggressive armed guards before, but you guys take the cake! I mean, you make a Judoon look friendly! Heck, compared to you the _Daleks_ are polite, and they're basically just armed pepper shakers filled with hate!"

"Shut. Up." Stykes ground out from behind clenched teeth.

"What, so the prisoner isn't allowed to talk now?" He asked sharply, letting a little anger bleed through. He wasn't going to outright defy them, that would be too risky, but that didn't mean he had to take the abuse with a smile.

"No, he is _not._" Stykes answered, already walking down the corridor.

"Well I hate to disappoint you," He said, following along without letting the guards shove him this time, "But it takes more than a few blows to the gut to shut _me_ up. Trust me, it's been tried before."

"well we'll just have to see if we can figure something else out, won't we?" Stykes said with a predatory grin.

He really didn't like that grin.

He kept his mouth shut and studied the other man as they walked, trying to see any glimmer of humanity in him. He was disappointed, the man was cold and cruel, completely devoid of compassion, everything about him screamed that; his bearing, the way he addressed his men, the way he looked at people, the way he looked at _him_. If the scientists were bad, this man was a hundred times worse.

It seemed that everyone in this place held him responsible for the destruction of the old Torchwood One. While he didn't want to think badly of the deceased, he _had_ warned them, he had done everything he could to prevent the catastrophe, but they hadn't listened.

As reckless, amoral and downright _stupid_ as they had been though, at least the old Torchwood had _believed_ in what they were doing. Yvonne Hartman had believed in it strongly enough to override the Cyberman programing, something that he wouldn't have believed was possible if he hadn't seen two very formidable women manage it.

This lot were in it for power, not the power of some hypothetical British Empire, but their own power. And revenge. They were operating outside the law, outside of government control. There was no oversight, no one to tell them what they could not do, and no one to stop them if they created another catastrophe like what had happened at Canary Wharf.

Except for him. He somehow didn't think that he'd be in a position to prevent any potential disaster though, not unless he managed to escape without endangering the lives of Sherlock and any of his companions that were alive in this timeline. The Bad Wolf virus had destroyed most of the old Torchwood's files on his companions, but he had no way of knowing how much this Torchwood knew about his friends. It was better to be safe than to escape only to stand over his companions' graves.

He stifled a sigh, that was the problem with taking companions. No matter what he did he always seemed to drag them headlong into danger. Even after they left him, or he left them, it seemed that they were still in danger because of him. He knew he was dangerous, that's why he was traveling alone, but it wouldn't last. He'd meet someone, someone absolutely brilliant and wonderful and so delightfully human, and he'd offer to take them out and see the stars, to experience the universe with him. And, in the end, he would bring them back changed, broken even, if he brought them back at all.

* * *

Any further introspection was cut off once they reached today's lab. He was somewhat glad to be jolted out of his increasingly morose thoughts, although it was tempered with a great deal of wariness, especially when he looked around and saw the lab they were in.

It was huge, about the size of a moderately sized warehouse. The entrance was situated on a large balcony, one of several that overlooked the lower floor. The balconies were connected by sturdy looking gangways, placed so that one could move from one balcony to the next easily enough. Each balcony seemed to house a large array of monitoring equipment, a hodgepodge of earth tech and alien tech that would allow the scientists to observe everything that was happening in the floor below.

The lower floor was accessed by a stairway leading from the first balcony. There was a small clear area around the stairs, but, apart from that, the entire room was one gigantic maze, made up of motorized sliding panels so that the entire maze could be changed at will.

While he was cautiously optimistic (there were far worse things that could happen to him than being forced to run through a giant maze) he was also waiting for the other foot to drop.

"Judging from our findings from yesterday, the threat of electric shock is a good motivator for you," Stykes said, a smug grin on his face, "Now, obviously we can't have one of the scientists following you around with a cattle prod today, so I had some of our engineers work on this little beauty."

He picked up an item that had been sitting on a nearby table. It resembled a large, flexible ring made from some sort of durable, slightly rubbery plastic, and, while it looked reasonably innocent, he was rather certain of it's purpose.

"A shock collar?" He asked incredulously, his eyes flashing with anger, "_Really_?"

"Not just any shock collar," Stykes said proudly, "This collar is made from a durable, light weight, elastic and flexible memory polymer, capable of conforming to the wearers neck, that we have developed after studying the remains of a Nestene Consciousness we recovered. It's also completely waterproof. The electronics within it are just as flexible, and allow us to monitor temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, respiration, blood oxygen levels... you get the idea The information is sent through wi-fi signals to a remote computer system, and can be accessed by any of our computers or handheld devices. Similarly all these devices can access a program which triggers the collar to deliver an electric shock of varying intensity and duration. It is completely tamper-proof, and if the wearer attempts to remove it an intense shock will be delivered, potentially knocking the wearer unconscious if they do not cease the attempt. It is a huge leap forwards in prisoner management."

He raised an eyebrow at Stykes' enthusiasm, "Am I supposed to be impressed? There are far more useful applications of such a polymer than shock collars for human prisoners." he said scathingly.

"Well, they're not intended for _human_ use of course, that would be immoral," Stykes said blithely, "They're designed for _aliens_."

"Because that's _so_ much better," The Doctor snorted derisively "Aliens don't have rights after all. 'If it's aline, it's ours'."

"No, they don't have rights. There are no laws against abducting aliens, or testing on them. Hell, there are no laws against murdering them either. We could kill you and dump your body in the Thames and no one would be able to do a thing about it!" Stykes threatened.

"There are no _human_ laws against it, no. And I suppose you _could_ dump my body in the Thames if you really wanted to, of course I'd probably just regenerate and come back _really_ mad. Even if I didn't, then you'd have a little thing called the _Shadow Proclamation_ to deal with," He snapped, "Because Torchwood has violated so many laws of the Shadow Proclamation it's not funny. Many of them have half a mind just to wipe this little blue ball off the face of the galaxy, and they'd just _love_ the excuse to do so."

"If this 'Shadow Proclamation' is so powerful, why haven't they acted already?" Stykes snorted, clearly unimpressed.

"Didn't you ever hear about the entire hospital that vanished and then reappeared after a few hours in the middle of London? It was only a few years ago. That was the Judoon, the Shadow Proclamation's thugs. They would have let every single person in that hospital suffocate if they hadn't found the alien fugitive they were looking for. They very nearly did. That was what they did when humans were just innocent bystanders. What do you think they'll do if they rule your planet to be in violation of their laws?" He explained, unable to help from sounding a little condescending.

Stykes frowned dangerously, and the guards shifted threateningly. He tensed, expecting another blow.

"Then why haven't they moved against us already?" Stykes asked, still refusing to believe that anyone had authority over interplanetary law.

"Who do you think's been stopping them?" He asked, raising an eyebrow somewhat playfully.

"Enough," Stykes snapped, thoroughly annoyed, "We're wasting time. Collar him."

The guards moved to obey, and he tensed, his entire being resisting the idea of being collared like an unruly dog. He knew that it was inevitable, even if he fought they could just call in reinforcements, he'd be subdued eventually, but that didn't stop his hearts from beating faster, or his mind from yelling at him to fight or run.

He stepped back a few paces, his entire body stiff as a board, glaring at the guards warily. It made no difference. Two of them grabbed his arms and held him in place while one of them snapped the collar shut around his neck.

The plastic contracted, moving until it fit closely around his neck. It wasn't particularly uncomfortable, and he could still breath and move his neck without difficulty, but the feeling of the collar around his neck was distinctly unpleasant. He supposed it was more the _thought_ of a collar around his neck than the actual feeling; like he was an animal, or a slave.

"Put him in the maze."

* * *

"If you go the wrong way," The scientist conducting the experiment explained, "You'll be shocked. If you stop, you'll be shocked. If you are going too slowly, you'll be shocked. If you..."

"Yeah, I get the idea thanks," He said sharply, "If I do anything you don't like, I'll be shocked. Is their anything else I need to be aware of?"

The scientist gritted his teeth, and replied tersely, "No."

"Then I'll be off. Allons-y!" He said cheerfully, trotting off into the maze.

It was strangely pleasant inside the maze, he supposed it was because, apart from the collar around his neck, this was the closest thing he'd had to freedom since he was arrested by the police a few days ago. Even though his captors were still there, he couldn't see them, and, for some strange reason, that cheered him up a bit. He even found himself humming quietly as he trotted along, following a straight path through the maze.

His humming was interrupted as he took a left turn in the maze, only to have the collar activate. His entire body tensed and spasmed, the unexpected jolt causing him to fall over, writhing in pain. He rolled onto his back and glared up at the balcony where all the disturbingly gleeful scientists were gathered. With a sigh he pulled himself up and kept going.

He kept up the trotting pace, not wanting to wear himself out too quickly, but, sadly enough, it was still draining his pitifully limited reserves.

Every time he took a wrong turn, he was shocked. The shocks were painful to say the least, and each time he stood he felt a little weaker. He was trying to follow the mazes pattern, but the shocks were disorientating, so every time he made a mistake he became even more confused.

_Slow down, think._ He told himself, trying to visualize the entire maze in his head, thinking five turns ahead. He almost slowed to a stop at some points, focusing on his mental map rather than anything else.

Eventually, after seven wrong turns and three shocks for going to slow, he made it to the other end of the maze.

Even though he hadn't been going particularly fast he still felt a little out of breath. He hadn't really recovered from the last two days tests yet, and, at the rate the scientists were pushing him, he wasn't _going_ to recover any time soon.

Before he could completely catch his breath, the maze had been changed once more.

"Begin again," The scientist ordered in a tone that brooked no argument, "Faster this time."

With a sigh he trotted into the maze once more, trying to force himself to go faster without making any mistakes.

Needless to say he made mistakes. Each shock felt like a thousand knives dancing over his skin, or perhaps a few hundred hungry ants biting at him. Each time he was nearly knocked off his feat. Sometimes he fell, and had to haul himself up once more, but at last he completed the second maze.

Again, there was very little time to rest before he was shoved back into the maze, moving even faster, and again, and again, each maze more complex, each time going a little faster, until he was sprinting headlong into the maze with no clue which direction to go.

The world had become a blur of left and right turns, his mind racing through the maze as surely as his body. _The maze was everything. Run run run. Left, left, right, _shock_, straight, left,_ Shock_, right, right, left, right, left. Out of the maze. Rest. Back into the maze. No time to stop, have to get through the maze again. Think, think, think. Come on, you're smarter than this, you're better than this, run!_

Still he kept running, solving the maze as he fought for breath, falling from the strength of the jolt when he failed. Each time he got a little better, a little faster, a little smarter, his mind going into overdrive.

The first maze had taken him four minutes and thirty-five seconds, the second made took him four-minutes and twenty seven seconds. Four minutes and fifteen seconds, four minutes and six second, three minutes and fifty eight seconds, three minutes and forty two seconds... endless mazes on repeat.

Time flew by, minutes and hours of it, passing as he ran, thought, hurled himself at the maze, fighting it. He had to beat it, he _needed_ to beat it.

The collapse was inevitable. After five hours, twenty seven minutes and three seconds his body just could not take anymore.

As he reached the center of the sixty-seventh maze his legs collapsed out from underneath him. So focused on the maze that he didn't understand what was happening, he tried to stand, tried to avoid the shock that he knew was coming, but his legs wouldn't obey him.

The shock burned and tore like it always did, but he couldn't do more than wriggle painfully. It left him panting and shaking, and he knew he needed to get up, but his body had finally had enough.

Three shocks later he was barely able to keep his head up. A voice came across the speakers, "Get up. We won't warn you again."

He chuckled weakly, gasping for air, and shook his head with a hopeless expression. He didn't know if they could hear him, but it was worth a shot.

"I can't get up," he said, his voice strained and verging on hysteria, "Can't move my legs, can barely even keep my head up. The whole thing's kaput. You can shock me as much as you want, I'll probably just lie here and pass out like yesterday."

He chuckled again, trying, and failing, to get himself back under control. It wasn't easy, for all his inhuman strength of mind and will he was beginning to fall apart at the seams, the strain was driving him into the ground. Not just the strain of being a captive, that was normal enough, but the weight of _everything_ that he carried around on his to thin shoulders.

Being a renegade, the last of his kind, the destroyer of his own race, the only thing standing between the universe and destruction. Being alone, being a danger to those around him, everyone leaving or dying or forgetting or choosing someone else, losing everything.

Because he did, he lost everything, his family, his friends, his home, his _planet_, for _Rassilon's_ _sake_ his whole _planet_! And, in the end, what good did it do? The Daleks still showed up like the proverbial bad pennies, planets still waged war on each other, people still died, he had to bring the universe itself back from the brink of destruction every few years. And for what?

What did he get, in the end? What was his reward for all his work. He saved _everyone_, but who was there to save him? Wouldn't it be easier to just sit back and let the universe sort out it's own damned problems? Why should he care? Why should he fight?

His shoulders shook with suppressed laughter, he had to laugh, or he'd cry. And if he cried, what sort of Time Lord was he?

The guards found him like that, slumped against the wall shaking with bitter, hysterical mirth. As they hauled him to his feet his vision swam dangerously, almost graying out. He was tempted to give in and allow himself to fall unconscious, but he forced himself to get a grip, clamping down strongly on the laughter that still threatened to bubble over.

He swayed dangerously as he stood, and, the moment he tried to take a step, he pitched downwards and would have ended up on the ground again if one of the guards hadn't begrudgingly gripped his arm to prevent that.

"Walk." The guard said tersely.

"I can't," he sighed, "I'm not just saying that, I actually can't move, which, considering I've been running though this damned maze four five hours, thirty one minutes and fifty two second isn't all that surprising. On the upside, I didn't pass out this time."

"How is that an upside?" Another guard asked sourly.

"Well..." he breathed, wincing at the first guard picked him up like a rag doll, "It means you get to enjoy my shining personality for a few moments longer. Look, we're all having _fun_."

It was hard to tell, but he thought he saw the second guards lips wobble a bit in a suppressed smirk. A victory then.

His vision tried to gray out again as they carried him out of the maze, but he clung to consciousness firmly. He could pass out when he was in his own cell.

Getting up the stair was an adventure, he felt himself wobbling precariously in the guard's hold and really hoping he wasn't about to get dropped. That would be highly unpleasant. His entire body already ached, a combination of leftover pain from yesterday, the residual pain of numerous electric shocks and the all consuming fatigue that was now plaguing his body. Getting dropped would be a _very_ bad idea.

At last they made it to the relative safety of the balcony. He supposed he was grateful to the guard for not dropping him, after all, it wasn't the _guards_ making him do these awful tests, they were just guarding him... making sure he didn't escape... taking him into the labs... shoving him into the maze... dropping him into a tank of water... actually, those guys were jerks.

Stykes was looking at him like he was dirt on his shoe, "Given up already?" He asked condescendingly.

If he had the energy, he would have said something equally scathing back, but every inch of his body ached and he just wanted to fall into blissful unconsciousness, so he decided to keep his mouth shut for a change.

Sensing that he wouldn't get a response from his prisoner, Stykes sighed, "Take him back to his cell."

The guard complied, slinging him none to gently over his shoulder and moving through the corridors back to the cell. The journey passed in a blur of motion, every step jolting painfully, but at last they arrived at the cell, and he was dropped gracelessly onto his mattress, the air leaving his lungs with an 'Oof' sound.

The guards left without a word, and he sighed with relief, allowing his head to fall backwards and stretching out his abused frame as much as he could.

"Well," a voice said dryly from across, "At least you're awake this time."

Sherlock's casual tone was belied by the way he was carefully cataloguing his condition, taking in every little detail to paint an unpleasant picture.

"What was the test today?" He asked curiously, "Obviously something to do with running."

"Obviously," He replied with as much good humor as he could force into his voice, "Today it was a giant maze. There was no cheese however, which was a shame, because I like cheese. I suppose lab rats get all the dairy products though."

"Now," he said, his vision swimming again, "If you don't mind, I'm going to pass out now."

And he did so.

* * *

**a/n: **Sorry again that this took so long to post, but, on the plus side, it turned out to be a nice long chapter.


End file.
